and I'll begin not to love you
by rose-tinted-bones
Summary: Shiro can't help it – he can't help but think of forever when he sees the flaxen hair glowing under the sunlight, the down-turn curve of his lashes and the gentle smile on his face. His own hand is warm, wrapped around the other's waist, searing fire and tender light. Heartbreak and love, riding on the tail-end of a dying comet. A lesson in romantics and the fragility of forever.


**and I'll begin not to love you**

* * *

 **AN:** This fic will have heavy Season 7 spoilers from SDCC. If you do not want to be spoiled, please do not continue. :)

* * *

"I know I could have loved you but you would not let me."

- _Silver Springs_ ; Fleetwood Mac

* * *

Shiro first meets him when he's eighteen, standing in front of the tall-steel walls of the Galaxy Garrison. The view is terrifying, he's not going to lie – soldiers on the battlements, electro-fencing circling about the compound, the ochre-grey color of the straight cut lines and he's sure the windows that reflect the sun into his eyes are bulletproof.

A veritable fortress, and there he was, half-skin and bones and a duffel bag worth everything he's ever had on the ground next to him and his heart up his throat.

The desert currents pick up, and sand is thrown in the air and Shiro squints, trying not to let them get into his eyes – it won't do well, not when he's in front of so many soldiers and officers and he's sure his legs are shaking and he feels like throwing up.

It's everything he wanted – all the years and studying and training at the academy for a shot at joining the Garrison and though his fucked-up body had been fighting him every step of the way, the idea that he's here _now –_ that he can make for his dream, make it _real_ – it's just a bit overwhelming.

Overwhelming like hurling, like falling to his knees and feel the sting of tears in his eyes and the tremble of his hands as the truth of it crashes home.

There's the sound of hoverbikes moving about the base, and the rushing echoes in his ears, a sound that he's imagined almost all his life and finally hearing it – surrounded by the reverb of it – has his hands rolling into fists, tight enough for them to tremble slightly.

Shiro hears a cry cut short, and he turns to find someone on the ground, bags strewn around him, light brown – almost flaxen hair and tan skin. He looks about Shiro's age, and he heads over as the other pushes his glasses up his nose and starts picking his bags up.

"Here, I got this," Shiro smiles at him, picking up the fallen suitcase and setting it evenly on the ground. The other's face is red, flushed cheeks and ears and sweat dotting his temples – the sunlight glancing off the lenses and the dark grey frame, sandy hair stuck to his forehead.

"Oh, thanks a lot," Shiro shrugs, hand in his pocket as the other – cadet? Officer? Scientist? He's not really sure – hurries to get his things from the ground. He's tall, as tall as Shiro, a bit on

the lankier side but it's not like Shiro is one to talk, considering, well, _things._ Still, it might be nice to know a face here – if not a friendly one, then, at least, a familiar one.

"No problem. I'm Shiro, by the way," he greets, holding a hand out. "Cadet."

The other pauses, hazel eyes blinking at him owlishly before he takes the hand, shaking it awkwardly. "H—hi, I'm Adam. A cadet, too. Sorry about the bags."

Shiro waves a dismissive hand, unbothered. "Like I said, it's not a problem. Plus, us cadets got to stick together, right?"

Adam doesn't smile back, but his lips do move – as if mouthing words – before nodding, responding with hesitation. "I guess."

He places his hand back in his pocket and shifts his stance, pulling off weight from his other leg. _Make sure to shift your weight from time to time,_ his therapist had said that, once, and Shiro keeps it to heart. Adam looks to the Garrison and up her walls and Shiro sees his mouth falling open, his eyes widening. "Wow. It's…scarier than I imagined."

At the frank admission – and basing on the dulled, low tone, it was probably _unintentional_ – Shiro chuckles, pulling his own bag up and hoisting it over his shoulder. "I know, right? I thought I was about to piss my pants, or puke or both."

Adam looks to him, eyes still glaze. "I think I'm going to do both."

Shiro ends up laughing again, his earlier tension and fear slowly dissipating, the gleam of the soldiers' helmets and the walls not as terrifying as it had been earlier. He pats Adam on the shoulder, turning to face the Garrison. "Yeah, well, I make no promises but I might end up doing those things before you do."

The other cadet's brows furrow, his bags moving about him as he fidgets. Shiro watches the curl of the light-colored hair over tanned – golden-brown – skin and the line of sweat running down his jaw. Adam looks to him, face screwed up, probably unsure of what emotion to display. "It's not too late to run back home, right?"

The word home lingers in Shiro's mind, brings up the memory of his father hoisting Shiro up his shoulders, a toy space shuttle in his hand as he makes zooming noises against the moon. "Well, we're here, and we're miles from the nearest airport and we spent the last few years in the academy for this. I say we go for it."

Adam grimaces, and the sight has Shiro chuckling again. "Studying for it is one thing. Actually being here is another thing. I don't think my stomach can handle it."

Shiro gets it – the feeling of ambition and his dream made manifest is pushing and thrumming up his veins and down his nerves, and the fear and worry of failing and not being enough lines the edges of his bones and muscles – and he understands Adam's hesitation. Still, it's not like they – or he – can easily turn tail and run in the other direction.

Looking back was for those who had a home to return to, and his was burnt down and empty, the memory of his mother and father six feet under the ground. All he had, right now, was moving forward.

"Neither can mine," Shiro grunts, walking forward, pulling his letter and ID out of his bag. He turns back halfway, tries to make his smile encouraging. It might have worked, he's not sure, but Adam stops fidgeting and looks at him in the eye. "But we never until we try, right?"

The other cadet's fingers play on the strap of his messenger bag over his shoulder, and he bites his lip, looking on the ground.

Shiro waits, still smiling. Adam looks up, and nods – a determined gleam cleaving through the hesitation as he walks forward and up to Shiro and they both take the steps together up the Garrison.

* * *

Orientation is, for a lack of a better term, fucking scary. The cadet colonel was an older woman, dressed in the beige-grey uniform like the rest of the officers and senior cadets, and though she was shorter than Shiro, the icy blue of her eyes has every one of the new recruits sitting up on the benches, back ramrod-straight, and Shiro can feel and hear his own heart beating inside his head.

"Here, at the Garrison, we train the _best._ " She says – commands, more likely, with the way her voice echoes in the silent hall – as she paces before them languidly. "Anyone who can't make the cut will be out of here before sunrise. Three words, recruits. Survive. Survive. Survive. Put that in your mind and, hopefully, you won't be a waste of our time and resources."

As far as motivational speeches go, it wasn't…terrible, Shiro likes to think, as the colonel calls another officer to make the rounds of introduction. No one raises their hands to clap after her speech and Shiro thinks that if anyone _had_ , that person would be the first one to be out before sunrise. Hell, before sun _down._

The cadet officers are no different as they stand with their hands behind their backs and hard eyes glare at them. Shiro tries to wipe his face of any emotion as one walks up to him, and he stares straight over the officer's shoulder – the way he knows they want.

"I am major Iverson, and I will be heading your division for your entire stay at the Garrison. Be sure to last more than a week or there will be hell for wasting my time," he announces, the bass voice laced with a hint of condescension that has Shiro wanting to frown. "Now, introduce yourselves and I might even care enough to remember some of you."

Shiro remains up, not moving and barely looking away from the wall on the far side as he hears his co-cadets introduce themselves. To the left, in the peripheries of Shiro's gaze, facing the center, he spies sandy-hair and tan skin and the slight fidgeting. He doesn't look exactly at Adam, but Shiro can still see him, in the midst of the other cadets.

The cadet next to him finishes, and Shiro pauses a second before introducing himself. "Cadet Takashi Shirogane. Eighteen."

"Shirogane, huh?" Iverson comments, and Shiro doesn't look at him – remains still and unblinking, and he can feel the strain on his lower back as he's been in this position for the last hour already. There's a gleam of recognition in Iverson's eyes, and Shiro tries his best not to let any emotion cloud over his face. _Not now, Takashi. You can deal with that later._

Iverson continues to look at him, at the side of his face, and Shiro hopes he's not shaking – and he hopes that his hands aren't trembling the way his mind is telling him they are and—God, he hopes that he's not going to fuck up on his first day at the Garrison.

"Next," Iverson grunts, looking away, and Shiro does not allow himself to breathe deeper as the man turns to the other cadets. He still remains straight up, ignores the gradual discomfort running up his back. He concentrates on his breathing – on the ins and outs of air, the oscillations, just the motion of it entering his body, circulating alongside his blood, and exiting – a cycle he has playing in his mind as he ignores the urge to frown and grimace at the pain.

He does it for a while, until he notices Iverson approaching the last batch of cadets, and he sees the major four cadets down from Adam. Shiro tries to mask the movement of his eyes, slow and surreptitious, and the attention of the other officers are on Iverson and the cadet currently introducing himself.

Adam is sitting straight, but Shiro can see the way his hands bunch over his pants, the thumb tapping against the index. The other cadet's eyes are looking ahead, straight, but he can see the tension running up his shoulders and down his sides and the strength of it has him trembling a bit.

Iverson stands to the cadet next to Adam, and Shiro can see him still so violently that it was a wonder the major didn't notice, the blood leaving the cadet's face and making him look paler than usual. Without conscious thought, Shiro taps his index finger against his pant – once, twice, thrice.

He has no idea what he's doing – and if any of the other officers or, hell, if the other cadets report him, he'll be in trouble. Sure, it was still Orientation but he doesn't want to mess things up for himself, and he can already guess Iverson's moods – the kind that will be happy to look for any excuse to give you hell.

Adam's eyes shift from the wall to the tapping motion of Shiro's finger, and hazel eyes look up to meet his. Shiro looks at him – and raises the edge of his lip in an extremely small, almost unnoticeable smile. _Hang in there, man. Don't let them scare you._

Adam's eyes widen a bit, his thumb pressing into the skin of his palm, before he looks back to the wall just as Iverson turns to him. Shiro evens his face and looks back at the far end, and feels the relief run down his back when nobody had noticed what he's done.

He hears Adam's voice and, though it's shaky, it doesn't break and it ends with a strong, guttural 'sir' that has Iverson moving to the next.

Adam doesn't look back at him, but Shiro doesn't mind. Cadets have to stick together, after all.

* * *

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Shiro asks, entering the small office set beside the Assembly Hall where they had their Orientation a few hours ago. Outside, the rest of the officers were giving the room assignments to the recruits and Shiro would have been there, too, if it were not for Iverson calling him up.

He already has a hunch on what's up, but Shiro doesn't let any of the hesitation and shaky confidence show on his face. He puts on the apathetic mask that soldiers do as he stands in front of the major's desk, back straight and hands set evenly at his sides.

"Yes, cadet." Iverson answers, moving his chair forward as he leans on the desk. His face is set in an unimpressed look, a dark brow raised as the major looks Shiro up and down, assessing him. Shiro doesn't think of the medals and the stripes of rank on the major's shoulders, or the beret on his head or the ugly sneer on his face. He thinks of a space shuttle against the moon,

and the dream of reaching the stars. "When we received your recommendation from the academy, I will be honest in stating that it was a surprise for us."

Shiro's voice is calm as he responds. "Yes, sir."

Iverson grunts, leaning back, scratching his jaw. "After all, we don't usually get glowing records from academy dogs with ALS."

The anger spikes in Shiro as the words sink in, but Iverson's gaze is on his face – probably waiting for a reaction. Shiro breathes evenly. "Yes, sir."

The major cocks his head, taking in the seam of neck to shoulder. Shiro feels the gaze wash over him and it's uncomfortable – not in the perverted sort of way, or maybe it is but Iverson's not looking at him like he's undressing him. He's looking at Shiro like he's trying to find a weakness, a chink for him to break open and destroy. "The thing with motor neuron diseases is that they basically make you unfit for any career that places emphasis on physical endurance."

"Yes, sir. I understand, sir."

A brow is raised, and Shiro continues to look over the man's head and at the frame behind the desk. It's the major's own face – and Shiro locks the thought of _how big of a jerk can you get_ away from his mind. "Usually, we'd close our doors in the faces of people like _you,_ but the academy does fund half of this entire Garrison."

Shiro repeats the words he's been saying in the last few minutes, and he ignores the unspoken line of _You're only here because you lapped and kissed the asses of the academy instructors and we're only giving you this chance just to see you fuck it up and to give us an excuse to kick you out._ It doesn't matter – what they think of him doesn't matter. Shiro expected this to happen, and he's prepared himself for it.

The thought stings, like a red, inflamed welt that keeps rubbing against the seam of his clothes, but it is what it is.

Iverson doesn't continue yet – just looks at Shiro, a folder on his table with his hand atop it and Shiro knows it's about him and nobody else. Outside, the noise of the other cadets begins to fade but Shiro doesn't move. The major breathes deep, sighs and it sounds annoyed as he gestures at Shiro to the door. "The electro-neurointerfacing schedules will be given to you by your troop officer – I hope I don't have to make it clear that this is strictly confidential, and that the academy basically forced us to accept this is something that shouldn't leave this room, am I clear?"

Shiro's voice remains the same. "Yes, sir."

"Good. With this set, I expect absolutely no performance drops on your end or I'll personally throw your shit out of my Garrison. Understood, cadet?"

"Yes, sir." Shiro doesn't blink, salutes when Iverson dismisses him and he walks out of the office in even steps and closes the door behind him. When the lock clinks, and he notices that the Assembly Hall is empty at this point, Shiro allows his shoulders to drop and his eyes to blink.

He raises a fist to wipe at the wetness and just breathes through his mouth.

 _This is nothing, Takashi. What he said is nothing. You can do this._ He tells himself, ignoring the

ugly bile growing in his stomach and up his throat at Iverson's words. It's fine – it's not like he's not used to it. This was just the academy, all over again. He can get through this. He'll be fine.

"Shiro?" An unsure voice calls his name, and Shiro looks up – surprised – as Adam peeks his head in through the open hall doors. The other cadet is looking at him, and Shiro hopes that it's not obvious that his eyes are probably red and that his breathing is a bit sniffled.

"Adam. Hey, what's up?" He asks, straightening himself and wiping his hands on the sides of his pants. The other cadet walks into the hall, shoulders curled in. He has his bags with him – and Shiro's own duffel bag atop a suitcase. "Hey, you didn't have to do that."

"It's okay," Adam says, smiling a bit. He still looks unsure and hesitant, but only a sliver of the earlier nervousness lingers in his hazel eyes. He raises a small slip of paper and Shiro grabs it, smiling a bit at what's written.

"We're roommates? Nice." His words seemed to ease the tension in Adam's shoulders as they droop and the smile on his face is a lot more natural.

"Y-yeah, I was hoping it would be someone I'd recognize, at least." The other cadet reaches a hand up to scratch at his head, looking away, sheepish. Shiro allows himself to smile, reaching down to grab the bag.

"Guess things are really picking up now, huh?" The other cadet shrugs, and Shiro pats him on the shoulder once more. "Hey, don't worry about it, Adam. Like I said, we gotta stick together. We can do this, alright?"

The last line is spoken in a confident voice, even though Shiro only feels a quarter of that confidence, and it's more conjecture than fact and Iverson's words have taken root inside him, tangling his ankles and wrists close to his chest. Still, the way Adam nods and even smiles at him as he grabs his own things has Shiro hoping. If he believes it enough, he can do it.

He's learned to be the only person in his own corner; the only other people who would have had his back are gone.

"Yeah, stick together, right?" Adam repeats as they walk out of Assembly Hall and make their way towards the dormitories, side by side as they go through the throngs of other cadets and officers. Shiro bumps his shoulder into Adam's, and nods.

They can do this.

* * *

Training at the Garrison, Shiro realizes, is exactly like the way it was in the academy – except the professors are cadet officers who don't give a shit if you pass out in the middle of an obstacle or if you barely get an hour of sleep before more emergency drills are set on you. Iverson wasn't lying about the endurance thing – the Garrison was merciless. Just the first week in, almost twenty recruits were sent packing and Shiro just breathes in relief as he locks eyes with Adam during the assembly, exhaustion mirroring the lines on their faces but still alive and still kicking.

It was hard – adjusting to the first week of training. At the academy, they were trained to wake up at the crack of dawn, followed by the morning jogs and obstacle runs and the classroom lectures. Afternoons were set aside for more physical fitness and endurance courses before heading to the night classes. The academy had _routine,_ had the simplicity of following a line

curving inwards until you hit where you first left and made the run again.

The Garrison was different – the Garrison threw everything into disarray, always preparing them for emergencies. Classroom lectures were not just in the mornings or the afternoons – in the middle of sleeping, the alarms would blare for emergency classes that demand cadets in their classrooms in less than five minutes. Jogs could be at seven in the morning or at midnight, and any word of complaint was met with harsh retribution that usually ended with a 'dishonorable dismissal' stamped all over your file.

All of this – mixed with Shiro's neurointerfacing sessions – made it extremely challenging to stay on top of things. Not when the sessions often left his muscles feeling drained and his entire body languid and numb, and he's unsure if he's actually walking or floating or a mix of both.

Still, it was a small price to pay to get Shiro where he is right now. Adam, on the other hand, barely seemed to hold on.

"You okay, man?" He asks the other, extending a hand at the other. There was a desert storm, and they were out in the field on more of Iverson's suicidal endurance runs, and sand was in their faces. Adam was on the ground, panting and breathing raggedly as the weight of the large bag on his back brought him to his knees at his loss of balance. The sand was slippery, and the terrain was uneven – it was easy to fall and get a mouthful of sand.

Adam grabs his hand and Shiro pulls him up. The other curls in, hands on his knees as he shakes his head. "Can't do this. Fuck. This is. Can't do this."

Shiro pats him on the back encouragingly, tries to make his voice brighter even though his legs felt like rocks and the sand in his face made his vision sway. "Hey, hey, stop talkin' like that, Adam. Come on, we're gonna get through this. Just half a mile left, just get to the line and we're done."

The other cadet doesn't listen to him, shaking his head. The rest of their division continues onwards around them, and Shiro begins to hear Iverson's voice at the rear. Not good. "Iverson was right, Shiro. I can't do this. I'm a failure. I can't. I'm not good at this. Everyone was right, I'm just—ah—wimpy kid who can't. Do shit."

Shiro shakes him. "Stop talking shit, Adam. Come on. You made it this far, don't tell me you're gonna give up?"

Exhausted, blown-out hazel eyes look up at him and Shiro tries to put a smile on his face as he squints through the sand, feels it sticking to his skin and the sweat and he knows he looks like shit but he doesn't care. "Hey, nobody thought we'd last until half the month, okay? But the month's almost over, and we're still here. We can do this, Adam."

Iverson's angry yapping and his relentless disparaging of the straggling recruits grow louder, and Shiro grips Adam's shoulder tight. "Hey, we made a deal, remember? We stick together. I watch your back and you watch mine, right? C'mon, Adam. I'm not giving up on this, and neither should you. Have more faith in yourself."

Adam's eyes are wide and tired, and the circles under his eyes are distinct even through the sand and the sweat on his skin. Shiro knows he looks no better, knows that his own legs threaten to collapse under him and he knows that it's only a matter of time before he passes out from the exhaustion, but he's gotten this far. He reminds himself that the only person pushing

him onwards is his own self and the memory of his parents and that he can't—

He can't disappoint himself. Not like this. Anything and everything – the sleepless nights, the classes that turn his brain to mush or the exercise drills that threaten to break his bones or the constant aching of his muscles – he'll take them head-on and with his bare hands if he has to. He's not giving up—

And Adam shouldn't either. "Hey, you told me that reaching the stars was something you wanted all your life. That's my dream too, Adam. We can do this. We can do that. We just gotta keep going."

Maybe his words take root – or maybe it brings a fire to Adam, because the other cadet is blinking harshly and nodding, lips grimacing as he stands up and pulls the straps of the bag against his shoulders tightly. Shiro pounds a hand on his back in relief and gratitude and they both pant and gasp as they continue onwards, ankle-deep in sand and the currents of their ambition pushing through.

* * *

"You're really good at that," Adam says, later, once the day is over and they're back in their shared room. He's sitting on his bed at the far end, back against the wall, feet bare as he crosses his legs under him. His glasses are on the end table, and his hair is wet from the shower and he looks close to passing out but he continues to look up at Shiro as he throws a shirt over his body.

He sees his own reflection on the mirror, and he looks over the definition of the muscles on his shoulders and arms and even on his thighs. He'd been smaller – thinner – when he got here, but after the strenuous drills, and in spite of what's eating away at him from the inside, he can feel a bit of pride and relief at the growth. "Good at what?"

Adam hums, pulling the nearest book to his lap and opening it. "Encouraging people. Making them believe they can do things they can't."

"But you did do those things," Shiro answers, turning to him as he puts the towel away. The floor of the room is cold, and his feet are bare, and he hurries to his own bed. The thin, military-grade mattress under him had been painful and annoying to sleep in during the first few weeks but, overtime – either through getting used to it, or by his own sheer force of stubbornness – he managed to find it decent enough. "I can only tell you that you can do it, but it's up to you to actually go through with it."

His roommate looks at him, and the exhaustion is clear across his face, but his eyes are bright as they look at Shiro. He feels a bit bare under Adam's hazel-colored gaze, like the other can see something Shiro doesn't, but he doesn't say anything – just looks back and plays with the askew string on his jogging pants.

"It's different, when someone tells you that it's possible," Adam murmurs, flipping through the pages. "When they look at you and they say that it's possible for you and you can really see that they believe it – believe in you."

Shiro keeps quiet, looking at the flaxen hair over the other's eyes as he ducks his head and reads. It's not lost on Shiro on how Adam was a bit of the odd one out in the entire group – the one that preferred to read and study, who hesitated most in taking command or in just taking action. He sees the awkwardness and the indecision in every stutter and pause in his actions.

"'Course I believe in you," Shiro says and it's honest. He shifts in his seat and leans his head against the wall, facing the other. Adam looks up at him through his hair, and the hazel is painted in ochre. "You're still here. You're still trying. You're still giving it your all."

"And I almost gave up." He countered, and Shiro breathed, shrugging.

"So did I." The surprise on the other's face has Shiro smiling tiredly. "You're not the only who feels like they're taking too much at one given time, Adam."

"You always seem so sure of yourself." The other's words are quiet, like they were not meant to be spoken aloud, but Shiro still catches them. He knows Adam isn't reading – and that's probably because the book is upside down, but Shiro doesn't call him out.

"I'm not always sure of myself," he admits, and he looks up at the blandness of the room's walls. They're the same color everywhere – even in the infirmary, at the back where the chief doctor readies the interface and attaches wire pads over Shiro's arms and legs and back. It's the same freakin' color even if his vision flashes black and white and he bites his lip enough to bleed as the electrical surges run up his limbs and they stutter against the binds. "But I try. I wanted this. I _want_ this and, hell, if I'm letting anybody take this away from me."

 _It's the only thing I have left,_ Shiro thinks and he eases away from the tone of bitterness and turns to Adam, who had set the book aside and was looking back.

It's quiet between them – and Shiro's used to it: to the occasional bouts of silence from Adam's end, the days and nights where he's more at home in his corner of the room, book in hand and the rare, extremely _rare_ quiet mornings, the early light sifting through the small window and bathing him in light as he reads. In those instances, Shiro keeps silent, does his own reading and studying and the occasional glance of light glinting off flaxen hair.

"Nobody's ever believed in me before." Adam whispers – and in the silence of the room, it's as quiet as a gunshot. His eyes are wide and bare and honest and Shiro is rooted to the spot. "Thank you for being my friend, Takashi."

The use of his first name is a surprise – a pleasant one – that has Shiro smiling at him, wide, even though it's edged in exhaustion. The earlier words, the confession, has something bunching inside his chest and Shiro can't imagine anyone seeing Adam and passing over him, unworthy of belief, or faith. There's a warmth bubbling inside, pulling away from the constant discomfort in his muscles and making Shiro forget them – for once – as Adam smiles back, just as genuinely.

"Thanks for being my friend, too, Adam."

* * *

The days and weeks go by – and it all flashes and crawls in a series of mud, blood, sweat and tears. The obstacle runs get even longer, more exhausting and draining – they're thrown into the desert more and more, forced to stagger and crawl through miles of sand and wind and gravity pulling you in different directions until you're flat on the ground, begging for the release of exhaustion-borne sleep. The classes become more difficult as they delve deeper into astrophysics and gravitational forces, memorizing numbers and equations and coordinates and expecting to be able to recite them quicker and faster than they can do with their own names. Everything becomes more arduous, and their numbers begin to dwindle.

What had been a hundred at the start was reduced to barely half of that; a race to the finish line of a survival game.

Still, in spite of the almost-murderous and definitely-suicidal drills Iverson forces on them, Shiro manages to keep his head above the water and breathe through his mouth, floating on nothing but iron determination and the white-hot desire to reach the stars and rub it in Iverson's face. What astounds him – and he'll be honest in admitting that – is that Adam manages to keep up, just as exhausted, just as tired, just as determined to keep breathing even when he's being pulled under.

It's a determination that's grown since the early days, when they barely knew each other, and his hazel eyes are burning with it – low, sometimes fragile, but it's _there._ The sight of it – for some reason – powers Shiro onwards.

"Still in the game?" Shiro looks up, sweat dripping into his eyes and sand against his skin as he stands from his tumble. He had misjudged the ground and had slipped, and before he had fallen, a hand had grabbed on to his arm and pulled him up.

Adam grins at him, lips pale and his eyes weary but he's a few steps ahead of Shiro and he's still on his feet. Shiro tries to grin back – and he's sure it's more of a scowl than a smile. They're breathing tiredly, but they're ahead than the rest and Shiro allows himself to just let his lungs have some rest.

It gets easier, he notices. Or his body gets used to it. It doesn't tire him – like bone-deep exhaustion and death lingering at the door – as much as it did at the start and he's not sure if it's because of the constant exercise or the interfacing. Regardless, he's not one to look at fortune in the mouth.

"Yeah," Shiro nods at his best friend's smile. "Just admiring the ground. Y'know, saying hi to the—ugh—sand critters."

"Sure they liked you as much as I do," Adam throws at him, and Shiro finds the strength to roll his eyes at the ribbing. It was surprising – to hear Adam say that once – but it's a pleasant surprise, a thawing of the shell around him, and more of his witty personality showing through.

"C'mon, Shiro. First run of the day and you're already on the ground. Not a good image for Iverson's golden boy." The harmless teasing is lined by a gravelly-taken in breath and Adam huffs as he stands with his hands on his waist, Shiro pushing at him for it.

"Fuck you, I'll wipe that grin off your face before the day ends." He challenges, already jogging ahead as Adam realigns his balance and jogs after him. The other recruits are still in the distance, and Shiro feels the expanse of freedom and forever before him – the seemingly endless horizon in his view. Russet sand and rose-gold skies and the gold sun cleaving through the clouds.

Adam bumps into his shoulder and they both cackle like mad – the kind that escapes your mouth when you have nothing but your own blood pumping in your head and beating in your veins – as they stagger onwards, invisible stars deigning to gaze at them from on high.

Shiro does manage to finish first in two of the three runs that day, and he doesn't let Adam's complaining about him cheating – he didn't cheat, he accidentally just kicked sand up in Adam's direction, nothing intentional, of course – deter him from his grin as they head up to their lectures.

His body is drained and exhausted, and he's dreading the interfacing after his class, but Adam's talking at a hundred words a minute on the recent advancements in interstellar travel and his smile is bright, the overhead fluorescents glinting off his glasses dimly in comparison. Shiro, to be honest, only half-listens – and, normally, he would give his friend his full attention, but he's distracted by the line of flaxen lashes around hazel eyes and the flecks of ochre in them.

"Wow, you're not listening to me, are you?" Shiro blinks, the words sinking in as they approach the classroom, nodding at fellow cadets. Adam purses his lips, a slightly peeved expression on his face.

It's—

It's cute.

The thought has Shiro biting his lip as he looks about, trying to ignore the squinty-eyed look Adam is throwing at him.

"Yeah, I'm totally listening." Shiro tries, giving him a smile. Adam doesn't believe it one bit, crossing his arms.

"Well, if you were listening, what did I say about the new hyperdrive engines BlasTech Industries had developed?"

 _Fuck._ Shiro thinks, scratching his head as he ignores the tapping of Adam's finger against arm and the raised brow over an irritated eye. He decides to think _screw it_ and guesses. "They're state of the art engines that NASA will be using in their next spaceflight missi—"

He doesn't even get to finish before Adam whacks his book against his shoulder lightly. "Idiot, hyperdrive engines and Blastech don't exist. That was Star Wars."

Shiro sighs, chuckling as he rubs his arm and sees the small grin on Adam's face. "Sorry, sorry. Won't happen again. I was just…zoning out. Tired."

His class doesn't start for another ten minutes, while Adam's was on a different floor. Shiro looks to the open door and sees a few of his other classmates already in, and he turns back to his friend. Adam is smiling up at him, but his eyes are roving over his face – concerned.

"You're going to head off to the Infirmary after Quantum?" Shiro nods in response, and he frowns at the growing furrow in between Adam's brows.

"Is everything okay, Shiro? You've been going to the doctor more and more."

Shiro stalls, and he feels the weight of all the white lies he's thrown Adam's way from the start – the minor diversions and redirections he's said when his roommate asks about his weekly excursion to the medical bay. Simple things like constant headaches, eye strain – couldn't sleep – and in a place like this, and the career they chose, those were expected things. Still, the more he used them, the more apparent the concern and the wariness in Adam's eyes grew – and Shiro's never been—

He's never been good at lying. He can't keep a lie to save himself and Adam's far too shrewd not to notice.

"Yeah, just minor check-ups. Remember the migraine I had last week?" Shiro lies, easing a smile on his face to off-set the frown on the other. Adam nods, not looking away, and Shiro

almost shrinks from the direct gaze. "Just wanna make sure that everything's good with the meds I took. It's nothing serious, Adam."

Adam's still frowning, but he doesn't press on his questions and the crinkle of his brows ease as he nods again. He uncrosses his arms, and smiles at Shiro. He would have smiled back, if it were not for the awkwardness and the strain of the curl of Adam's lips, and how his eyes look unsure.

"I believe you." He says, and Shiro has to stop himself from biting his lips or fidgeting with his fingers at the weight of the secret he's been holding from his best friend. There's a line of sadness in the other's voice, and it doesn't sit well with Shiro, not at all. "I know you won't lie to me."

Shiro can't say anything. He settles with a nod. Adam's words are too heavy on his conscience as the other smiles and steps away, preparing to head to his classroom. Around them, the chatter of the other cadets are dulled, and Shiro can hear everything Adam says. "And if you do, I know there's a good reason. I just want you to know that."

Adam raises a hand – waves at him – and Shiro can only wave back and watch the flaxen hair disappear over the others and he feels a heavy, uncomfortable weight in his stomach at the sadness on his friend's face.

He stands there – watching the crowd that Adam disappeared into – and he ducks his head, biting his lip as he walks into class. He spends the entire lecture thinking of Adam's words – and when he's called to answer, he stutters and blanks out and gets a demerit for it. For some reason, Shiro could care less about the demerit as the words of his textbook before him is left unread.

* * *

"Good, the atrophy hasn't worsened. It's stable for now. Unfortunately, the muscle spasms are harder to mitigate, cadet." Shiro nods at the doctor's words, wiping the sweat off his face and chest with the towel. It takes forever for him to raise his arms and wipe his neck and back – his muscles are still contracting, still raw and tender from the electrical currents that had been searing through his entire body in the last half-hour. It's the same prognosis – the same words – and Shiro can only breathe and nod, just grateful for it not worsening. For now.

The thought is an inky stain – irremovable – in his mind, and he closes his eyes, reminding himself not to psyche himself out and panic.

When the doctor clears him for leaving, Shiro struggles to get back to his room. It's always like this – the slow walk that seemed more like he's straggling, a hand on the wall as his vision flashes and his muscles constrict without conscious volition and he has to grunt and bite his lip as the spasms run through his legs or up his arms and he has to hiss around the scream of pain in his throat, not wanting to pull even more attention to himself. The interfacing is always done at night – when most of the cadets are in their rooms, and he has a pass that grants him immunity from demerit if he's caught wandering at this time – but all it would take is him making a ruckus for someone to hear –

And he can't. He can't let anyone know, can't let anyone hear him because he'll be kicked out. Iverson made it clear – and Iverson wasn't one to make threats idly – and Shiro has to do this. Has to prove it to himself that he can do this, that in spite of this fucking disease killing him from the inside out, he can still make one thing right.

He manages to make it to the lifts and past the offices and only sweating through the entirety of his shirt and gripping the wall tight. When the door of his and Adam's room appear in the distance, he slows down and tries to wipe the sweat off his skin. It's impossible to hide all of it – but Adam's gotten used to seeing him wander back to the room covered in sweat, an excuse of being at the Training Room ready on his lips.

It—makes him sick, to lie to Adam. It makes him feel ill to see the growing worry and sadness in the other's eyes, and Shiro knows. He knows that he's keeping Adam out when Adam had never kept him out – not once – and it leaves him feeling angry and frustrated at himself.

At his body. At who he is.

But—Adam's friendship was too valuable, too priceless for Shiro to give up.

Adam looked at him with pride and friendship and never with pity. Everyone had looked at Shiro in pity – in that condescending, superficial pity they paste on their faces in a pathetic attempt to make the disabled outcast in the group feel better, like they know how it feels – as if they had any idea, any _inkling_ of how fucking tired Shiro is of his own body, how he's disgusted with it and ready to part with it if it means he doesn't get to look at his own face in the mirror and see the tremble of his hands and not feel like falling to his knees and heaving his guts out—

They don't know how lucky they are, how they don't have this ugliness up in their veins and slowly taking away the few things he has left – the only things that still keeps him going, like he's not sacrificed enough, _lost_ enough and—

And Shiro opens the door, quietly stepping in, and his shoulders loosening as the darkness of the room covers him. The door is locked behind him, and he's glad that Adam's asleep – he doesn't know if he can hide whatever expression is on his face at the direction his thoughts were going.

The low light seeping into the room is enough for Shiro to guess where the water jug and the glasses are, and to see Adam's form wrapped in a blanket. His shirt is soaked in sweat, but he doesn't have the energy or the patience to go through the motions of taking it off and finding another – his arms too heavy for him to rotate, and his legs upright only because he's fucking forcing them to.

He is thirsty, though, and makes for the jug, ignoring the spasms. The glass is cold against his fingers, and the relief that runs through his nerves and synapses in contrast to the searing heat has him sighing.

His fingers tremble when he picks it up, and his wrist just _shakes_ and the glass falls—

Shatters.

Shiro stills – every bone and muscle in his body rock-solid as he feels the shards splitting and spreading around the impact site. He doesn't move – _can't_ move – as he stares at the ground, at whatever the light can shed on the broken glass and he doesn't register the movement on the bed and the lamp lighting up or Adam's worried sound.

The clear glass is in smithereens and chunks, scattered around his feet and his hands continue to tremble as his vision blurs. He doesn't realize he's sniffing and a cry locked in the back of this throat is itching to be released.

He falls to his knees – literally – as he tries to lower himself but his muscles are exhausted, the spasms sporadic and the bite of the shards are dulled by his jogging pants and, fuck, he can't see anything through the blurriness as he tries – with shaking fingers and a stuttering lip – to pick the pieces up, tries to fix them, fix whatever fucking happened to them because it's his fault, it's his goddamn fault and his body is a mistake, all of this is a mistake—

"Shiro," Adam says, voice low and worried, and it comes from behind him but Shiro just shakes his head, ignoring the bite of glass against his open palm as he tries to sweep them together.

"I can do this," he mutters, unaware. "I can do this. I can do this."

"Shiro," A hand is on his shoulder and Shiro lashes out, moving away from the hold. He only sees a flurry of colors and shadows through the miasma as he turns back to the wherever the fallen glass was.

"Leave me alone, I can do this," he repeats – words blubbered as he hisses, sees a stain of red in the too-bright, unfocused vision before him. Everything is white and grey, monochrome and a tinge of scarlet. "I'm not useless. I'm not useless. I'm not useless."

There's an echoing "Shiro" in his ears, a reverb that's both warm and sad and he squeezes his eyes shut, mouth open in a soundless cry as his hands close into tight fists and he just _shakes_ and trembles in place, trying to still the quaver and tremor in his voice, the shudder of his legs and his arms and the world-heavy weight in his chest.

The glass shards around him are left ignored, and Shiro is on his knees, surrounded by his own fucking ruin, and the warmth of the tears are hot – searing, white and fiery – on his cheeks as he tries to look for the words, the justification, an excuse and an explanation – both fact and falsification – and nothing comes out, no sound, no syllables. Only air, only the gasping, the struggle to breathe through his nose and mouth as crimson water floods into his lungs and he's drowning on the inside and pulled under the waves.

"I'm sorry." The words escape his lips – finally, fucking finally, and it's both a breath of fresh air and gravel and sand down his throat – and it's both absolving and condemning. He repeats it, says the words over and over because it's the only thing he _can_ say – the only thing he feels he's allowed to say, and the only fucking thing he can say that is appropriate, that is – just this once – enough. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

And the repetition of "Shiro" – the constant echo of his name around a worried, sad, heartbroken voice – continues in his ears, and he feels the warmth of a hand on his shoulder and he doesn't push it away, doesn't fight against the pathetic, whimpering need to curl in on himself and press close to it, bowing his head until he feels the knuckles against his cheek and it's enough and not enough, and it eases the tightness in his chest – just a bit, a bit for him to breathe through without gasping, without swallowing his own blood—

"It'll be okay, Shiro. It'll be okay, alright? I'm here. I'm here."

The words are soft – barely spoken, lingering over the din of his own shaking, just beneath the pounding of his heart in his ears and the warmth on his cheek grows and over his shoulders and he feels arms around him, holding him close and his hands are jittering over his chest and he reaches up, needs to hold on to the warmth – fucking chain himself to it like it's his fucking saving grace because it is – the arms around him are keeping him up, and the words – spoken in acceptance and warmth, honesty and not a single shred of fucking pity – loop and whirl about

his ears and in his mind until he hears them and only them—

"It's okay, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere, alright? I'm here. I promise."

And it's Adam and his voice and his arms that are around him, like a gentle lasso around a fragile, broken heart and Shiro feels more of the warmth escape his eyes as he leans his head back and feels the press of Adam's forehead against the nape of his neck, his nose against Shiro's shoulder and it's awkward and painful and his entire body is trembling, muscles spasms and contractions and just the ugly truth underlining everything Shiro's kept hidden – like a dirty secret, a shameful gift, a stain he can't erase—

Yet, Adam stays and holds him close and says the words that are too trite on the surface, too superficial and artificial and they're the words Shiro has spat back in the faces of greyed-out shadows full of pity but Adam's words are real, honest and true, and the tremor in his voice isn't artificial or constructed, and the arms around him are tight and unyielding and Shiro finds himself fastened to immovable ground as the maelstrom whirls and rages around him.

Seconds, minutes, _hours_ pass by—

Adam pulls him close, pulls him up and holds him steady and the shards are left on the ground, another demon for another day, and the careful – kind – way Adam pulls out the shards from his hands and cleans them off blood has Shiro closing his eyes, leaning forward until his forehead meets the seam of the other's shoulder, breathing his scent in, letting it linger in the rusty, infected cavities of his chest.

"I'm sorry." He says, one last time. It's not just the touch, or the shards or the crying.

It's for the lies that he's built, the walls he's set around him and for every attempt to put Adam out of the darkest, deepest secret in his soul.

He feels Adam's lips against his ear and the whispered response is true. "I forgive you."

In the morning, when the early light seeps through and neither has had a second of sleep, Shiro tells him. He tells Adam everything.

And he expects pity and disgust, anger and rage and the destruction of one of the very few important things Shiro can still hold on to.

But Adam leans close, wraps his fingers in the spaces between Shiro's and squeezes his hand tight, and his words are wobbly, the hazel of his eyes are liquid. "Thank you for telling me."

Shiro squeezes back, and he can't say anything except on thing.

"Thank you for staying."

* * *

Things change.

It's impossible to stop them from changing.

The truth is out in the open – between him and Adam – and it seems like that simple act, that one confession of Shiro telling Adam everything – the struggles, the ALS, the interfacing and Iverson's ultimatum – has carved a new path for them. They've always been close, Shiro knows, but with Adam knowing where he's going when he says he needs to go to the doctor, or when Shiro pauses while they walk to their classroom as he shifts the books in his hand with a

grunt and Adam looks at him – and there's no pity, none at all.

He sees worry in bouts, sees realization in waves and sees unwavering acceptance in a deluge.

When the interfacing sessions are over, Adam is there, lingering in the shadows of the hall and – it's going to get him in trouble, Shiro knows. If he gets caught, it's not just a slap on the wrist but an entire demerit off his near spotless record and Shiro doesn't want to be the cause of that—

But when Adam puts an arm around his waist, eyes determined and warm, and Shiro allows himself to lean against the other, allowing himself to breathe and just let the constant of Adam's presence allow him to stagger and keep himself upright.

The months pass by, and the shared truth between them – nothing held back, no walls between them – has their path growing even closer, and the weight of Adam's arm around his waist is no longer unusual, the scent of sandalwood against his nose as he leans close and allows himself to be carried, to not be strong for now, is no longer uncommon and the grateful – heartbreakingly grateful and trusting smile on Adam's lips – is no longer a weight on top of the others on his chest.

On the surface – to the rest of the Garrison – they remain as they are: the golden boys. They still excel, they stay at the top of their class and they make heads turn when they pass by. Rumors fly about, and bets are made – who gets to beat who, Shiro with his reflexes and his quick reaction times or Adam with his tactical mind, eyeing out weaknesses and opportunities for saboteur in a blink of an eye—

They no longer seem the scrappy duo that struggles at the end of the line; they lead the teams now, and they're greeted with enthusiasm. Even Iverson looks on at them in pride; an easily broken pride, but it is there, regardless.

And if Shiro hears the whisper of intimacy between them – the too-long touches, or the too-deep stares or the way they just smile at each other without a single word spoken, it doesn't really matter. He doesn't give it thought – feeling Adam's shoulder against his is enough.

The cadet year ends with the dreaded flight simulation – the make-or-break certification that ends with you either on the bus on the way to wherever you're from or the stripes of a junior officer, one step closer to his dreams.

Adam and Shiro are paired together, and it's not a surprise – to anyone and to themselves – at how well they work together, like a properly-oiled engine, joints and axles all seamlessly moving to keep the entire thing running. Shiro knows this – and he's not blind to how well they've gotten to know each other, and how he can spot the fluctuations of Adam's moods by the shift of his eyes or the minute movements of his facial muscles, or how they've gotten so used to training together – struggling together – that they both know each other's weaknesses, each other's strengths and what keeps them standing.

"Still," Adam says – encouraging – as he sits next to Shiro on his bed, a book on his lap. "It's best to study. We only got a few days until the simulation _and_ the exams. You do have to pass _both,_ you know."

"I know that," Shiro grouses, trying to take in the words in dull even lines – _Once people have established their identities, they are ready to make long-term commitments to others. They become capable of forming intimate, reciprocal relationships (e.g. through close friendships or_

 _marriage) and willingly make the sacrifices and compromises that such relationships require. If people cannot form these intimate relationships—perhaps because of their own needs—a sense of isolation may result; arousing feelings of darkness and angst._ "I just didn't expect to read up psychology for this."

Adam hums. "Of course, you will. Spaceflight involves long-term isolation, either by yourself or with a group, and is prone to cabin-fever and disassociation. Plus, it's just general psychology."

"Thank you for the textbook response, Adam," Shiro grins at him, flipping the pages and trying to get the words in. Over the months, astrophysics and gravity had become familiar terms – concepts he can almost recognize by idea alone – but it was just his luck to get roped into social sciences as part of the curriculum. "Nothing is sinking in. Psychology isn't for me."

Adam is quiet on his end, and Shiro looks up at him, sees the seriousness of his eyes as he takes in the paragraph. It's the same book and the same module – psychosocial development – but where Shiro struggles to keep his eyes open, Adam's are wide-eyed and burning into the book. "Hey, you okay?"

"Yeah." The answer is too fast for it to be entirely genuine, Shiro notes, as Adam flips through the pages. He doesn't look like the other is trying to look for a particular page, and it seems the flipping is done unconsciously, glazed hazel eyes deep in thought.

"You sure?" He prods, reaching out with a hand over Adam's knee and the other's fingers stop, ceasing the almost nervous flipping. Adam breathes in, his shoulders tensing and Shiro draws circles on his covered knee with his thumb before the other relaxes, turning to him a strained smile.

"I'm okay. Psychology isn't for me, either." Shiro smiles at him, and even though he knows evasion when he sees it, he lets Adam hold it close. There's nothing but trust between them – now – and he'll wait for when Adam is ready to talk to Shiro about it and not before. _I trust you._

It's easier, now – the things between them. When Shiro finally allows himself to be honest with his fears, with the way his hands tremble or the pain lancing up his back and Adam is there, holding his hand and not decorating the air with useless, trite words of comfort – when Adam just sits there and lets Shiro break down and cry and squeeze his hand as tight as he could and says nothing. It's easier, and Shiro doesn't feel like the ground under him is just thin earth and air ready to collapse, ready to swallow him whole.

Adam looks up at him – gentle afternoon light painting his face in swathes of gold, his hazel eyes shine like ochre and the flaxen hair gleams like a halo. It's easier – to admit that he's beautiful.

God, he's beautiful.

Bright and burning, fiery – a rushing comet.

Adam looks back at him – something warm and fervent in his eyes, painting his tanned skin in a delectable flush of red – and Shiro feels his heart beat faster, feels his hands sweat and his muscles are weak but this is something different – not the ugly fears or the ALS, but something deeper, primordial—

He doesn't notice himself leaning in—doesn't realize that Adam is moving closer—

The scent of sandalwood, the image of golden halos and fire running down tan skin and bright

intellect and burning through hazel—

Shiro kisses Adam, and it's not unusual, or weird.

It feels right.

He doesn't know how to angle his head, and neither does Adam's, and it's more pecking and smooching than actual kissing but Shiro doesn't care as the warmth and the taste burns through his skin and down his veins and the hand on Adam's knee reach up to hold his hand, and he feels Adam's hand on his face, pulling him close—

For once, Shiro feels nothing but rightness.

For once, the ichor in his chest isn't drowning him.

For once, he feels perfect.

* * *

They pass the exams in flying colors, and the flight simulation ends with the entire Garrison watching Adam and Shiro work hand in hand, finishing each other's sentences, running off commands like they're reading each other's mind—

When they step out of the simulation, the entire Garrison applauds them – their co-cadets, the officers, even Iverson and the cadet colonel—

He has an arm around Adam's shoulders and they're laughing and smiling, the muscles in their faces and their jaws hurting—

But nothing is wrong, and everything is perfect and the bright yellow of the junior officer stripes on their uniforms are an added bonus as Shiro pulls Adam close and kisses him in front of their co-cadets and instructors, and he doesn't care—

He doesn't give a fuck at who sees—who knows of them—because he's high on the wave of victory and ambition and the bite of Adam's glasses against his face and his too-wide, too-bright smile and Shiro finally feels like he's not losing.

No "I love you" is spoken between them. Shiro doesn't mind, he can wait for when Adam is ready to say it to him even when Shiro is already sure – half an entire galaxy sure of what he feels in his chest – when they retire to their room and pulls Adam into his bed with him.

"Hey," he greets as he leans over the other, sees the fall of his flaxen hair against his skin, the glow of his eyes in slits, light painting his nose in tan lines and Shiro feels his hand on his cheek, the thumb under his lip and he moves to press a kiss against it.

"Hey to you, too," Adam answers, and the smile on his face is delicate – fragile, raw and real. Shiro's vision blurs for a moment – and he wonders at what he had done to deserve this, to get _this,_ at all the loss he had to crawl through, the ink and the mud rushing at him every step of the way until he's blind and breathing ooze—

"I'm just—"Shiro starts, voice wobbly. Right now, nothing is hurting him. The cramps are there, they'll always be there, but it's the furthest thing from his mind. The insecurities and the fear of failure that lurk in every crevice and bone of his body are withering, eclipsed by goodness and rightness he feels inside. Nothing hurts. "—I'm just happy that I met you."

Adam looks at him something fierce, something bright and burning. When Shiro leans close to

kiss him, the words he whispers in between ignite something in Shiro. "I'm happy I stayed. I stayed because of you."

Shiro leans close and kisses him deep, and allows himself to get lost in the paint of hazel.

In the morning, Adam is warm and pliant against him, and his heart beats over Shiro's and it's just—perfect. Nothing hurts and everything is perfect and he wonders how it would feel to have this always, constantly – forever.

And the word – the thought –

It burns bright and warm inside him, and he can't stop the grin on his face or the rapid beating of his heart or the urge to curl into Adam until he's lost in the bubbling, effervescent warmth.

Shiro can't help it – he can't help but think of forever when he sees the flaxen hair glowing under the sunlight, the down-turn curve of his lashes and the gentle smile on his face. His own hand is warm, wrapped around the other's waist, searing fire and tender light.

He doesn't think of the future – of the nitty-gritty details and the implications, the things they'll have to plan out and, God, they haven't even discussed what they are – the magnitude of what this means to Shiro, how his gravity and balance lingers on the edge of hazel and flaxen-gold and it's new and terrifying but not, at the same time, like something finding a niche – a home – inside his chest and it feels right, God, it feels goddamn right—

And his life has been one mistake after the other, a disappointment over another, but this doesn't feel like a mistake. It's the furthest thing from a mistake and he feels nothing but rightness – like the reward waiting at a long line of blood and broken glass shards and sand and it's just everything he never knew wanted, or needed – something he never knew he could still have, not when you've grown up used to the idea of loss, of always losing and now he feels like he's winning—

There's no worry for the future, or the blinding rush of the desire and want and affection in his blood, or just how perfect this moment is – all of it blinded, pushed to the peripheries in a cavalcade of gold and hazel and tanned skin and it feels like – he feels like this is what it means to stand on top of the world and see nothing but the vast endlessness of forever and infinity.

He pulls Adam close and he allows himself to think – _five more minutes_ – and it's not accompanied by the fear of time cutting short. He doesn't feel like he's running out of time – the hourglass has shifted, and he's on the seconds of a minute that has stopped.

He doesn't think he'll ever feel this way for anyone else – not with Adam in his arms.

The thought is comforting, and it feels right.

* * *

A change of position means a change of responsibilities, and being a junior officer has Shiro gaining more ground and influence in the Galaxy Garrison. There's a change in command – Iverson's moving up to Lieutenant Colonel and soon he'll be the commander of the Garrison – and the movement brings with it opportunities for Shiro to climb higher.

The weeks of orientation into his – and Adam's – new role brings a level of maturity to his outlook. He wasn't just responsible for himself now – as a junior officer, he has classes to teach, divisions to oversee and it's not just his own hide he's looking out for, but several others, as well.

It's a level of responsibility that feels heavy on his shoulders, and he sometimes feels like a fraud – wearing the wrong clothes, saying the wrong things, unsure of his own resolve – but all it takes is Adam looking at him and smiling encouragingly and everything becomes, well, not necessarily _easier_ but more manageable.

The interfacing sessions are still ongoing and it seems to be a working solution, for now, as his muscles deteriorating are mitigated, held back by the painful surges of electricity. It still leaves Shiro drained and dull, numb and feeling like half a man, but when he exits the Infirmary and sees Adam waiting at the other side, it feels worth it.

"How's your class?" he asks, stealing into the room and shutting the door behind him. Adam looks up from the tablet on his desk, tired eyes lighting up as Shiro leans close and kisses him, fingers combing through the sandy hair, feeling delight at the smoothness of them against his skin. Adam makes a small whining noise as Shiro pulls away, chuckling at the pout on the other's lips.

"If I kissed you longer, your cadets might end up scarring themselves for life when they get in to the room," Shiro teases, edges of his lips curling as Adam rolls his eyes and sighs. He shifts his weight on the desk, resting his head on his palm as he leans on the wood. His boyfriend curls and rests his head on his stomach, closing his eyes in exhaustion.

"Ugh, don't remind me. I was doing a discussion on interstellar mediums and I can literally see them not picking a single thing up." Adam gripes. Shiro laughs at the mental image, pulling the glasses off Adam's face and gently rubbing his temple with a thumb, the way he knows Adam loves.

"Please don't stop doing that ever."

"As you say, _sir._ " Shiro's use of the appellation has hazel eyes opening with heat and Shiro bites his lip, his thumb slowing in its ministrations. Adam's hand on his thigh is warm, and when he grips it tightly, Shiro bites his tongue, unable to stop the thrum of arousal up his veins. With the new workload, it had been more challenging to get together, especially when their schedules didn't match – on days where Shiro oversees the grueling drills in the morning and Adam is asleep, exhausted from his night lectures. They've learned to steal whatever moment they have available to them, but the difficulty of it doesn't lessen how good it feels to unravel each other.

"If you don't stop doing that, we're both going to get fired, you know." He whispers, voice going low with want as Adam continues to press in on his thigh, until it moves deeper in, and Shiro feels the swell of interest in his dick. "Fuck, Adam—"

"Not here." His boyfriend answers, eyes glinting in the light of the classroom, and the touches on his thigh stops. "Will you be home tonight?"

Home – the upgraded suite they share in the upper floors of the Garrison. The white walls and the beige-colored couches and the kitchen stools and the master bedroom – the pale white blankets that they've made love so many times, Shiro can recall every single one of them the way he can recall every scar on his body.

"I don't have classes tonight," Adam's eyes gleam but Shiro sighs, moving his hand away from his boyfriend's face and locks their fingers together. "But I have another interface tonight."

Adam's eyes widen, the heat dissipating at the words and the hand on his thigh disappears. "I

forgot. Sorry, my mind's been a mess with all the lectures I have to get through."

Shiro smiles at him, waving his apology away. "Hey, it's not like I don't understand, sweetheart."

His boyfriend gives him a sheepish smile, bringing Shiro's hand closet to kiss his knuckles. "I still have a class tonight but I'll be waiting for you to finish, okay?"

His heart is up in his throat as Shiro grins – wide – at how warm and whole he feels at the words, at the affection and devotion he sees in the other's eyes. "Wouldn't want it any other way."

And it still rings true – as Shiro leaves the medical bay with a hand on the wall, and a limp in his stride, and when the door opens, Adam's arms are waiting for him, and a hazel-lined smile meets his lips. "Always proud of you."

Shiro holds on to those words as best as he can, in the moments where the interfacing reminds him of what's still broken and it's the idea and the realization that he doesn't have to be whole – intact, perfect and without scars – to be happy.

Shiro believes in Adam and his words, and that he sees Shiro for who he is and what he can become.

Adam talks to him about his classes and they laugh at the occasional slips of newbie officers in the middle of the grunting and the hissing as Shiro adjusts his footing or pauses as his muscles complain. Adam takes it all in stride, and his smile is a distraction that Shiro loses himself in.

When Adam helps him to the bed and slowly – gently – helps him in taking his sweat-stained shirt and pants off, he does it with a gentle smile that simmers with a hidden warmth and Shiro knows he's lost the game when he's bare and only in skin and Adam starts pressing kisses on his pectorals, his navel and down on him.

Shiro's eyes close, and he loses himself in the gentleness of Adam's touch.

* * *

Iverson puts him in as the poster boy for Recruitment. _They hear your sob story, they get teary-eyed and they lap it up and want to join us._ That's what Iverson said, and Shiro still feels the need to punch him in the face when he thinks about it, but he can't deny that he brings with him a certain charm.

"It's because you're genuine." Adam says, lips pressing against his neck as he smoothens the shoulders of the uniform. Shiro's standing in front of the mirror, dressed up to the nines, and the beret is on the nearby table. Adam is behind him, wearing only Shiro's shirt and nothing else and he looks wondrous – gorgeous – and he swallows down the heat as he pads the front of his coat for any imaginary mess.

Adam smiles at him – at their reflection – and it's just _domestic,_ like it's always going to be like this, with Adam helping him dress before work or preparing dinner while waiting for Adam to come home from his lectures, and the thought of it has a smile ready to burst open on Shiro's lips and his heart straining to keep the fire in.

His boyfriend's arms wrap around his middle and he presses a kiss against Shiro's clothed back. Shiro can't help but close his eyes and lean his head back, feeling Adam's forehead against his neck.

"You're honest and kind and too good to be true." Adam continues, smiling at Shiro's slight chuckle. "It's true, you know. You see the good in people and bring it out of them, bring the best out of them, even if they don't realize."

" _You_ bring the best out of me." He responds, turning in Adam's arms to put his hands on his waist and pull him closer – taking his lips for a deep kiss. "You remind me of what I can become, what I can achieve if I just keep going for it. Even with this sickness, you make me believe I can make my dreams come true."

Adam's eyes are soft – liquid – as he rests his head against Shiro's chest. His voice is muffled, but he can make out the words as they sway to a song nobody else hears but them. "That's just you, Shiro. You can do anything if you put your mind to it. You're strong like that."

Shiro doesn't know if he really believes that, but Adam does – and Adam's faith in him has kept him standing even when the odds seemed to push him back on his knees, even when the tremble of his muscles remind him that he's playing a time-limited game. He doesn't say anything, just pulls Adam closer – and breathes sandalwood and his own cedar in and lets it linger in his blood and skin, pushing him onwards.

"You're going to be late, you know." Adam says, hands rubbing up and down Shiro's back. He hums, pressing his nose against the flaxen hair. "Five minutes won't kill them."

His boyfriend laughs, and the lightness – the lilt of his tone – eases the knots in his muscles and the tension in his chest and Shiro wonders, not for the first time, how he managed to get by all this time with the gaping hole in his chest the shape of Adam.

When he visits the local schools and the academies later, he reminds himself of Adam's scent and his words and the beautiful smile on his face as Shiro talks to the students – as he sits on the desk, and smiles at them, their wide-eyed gaze bare and enamored by the tales he spins – the stars and the constellations, the beauty of human intellect reaching past limitations and into the eternity of space. He sometimes feels like he's a fraud, like a jester pretending to be king, but it eases when Adam's words reverberate in his head – _You bring the best out of people –_ and he holds on to the idea, the belief Adam has in them, and he feels more natural, realer when he talks.

When he visits the local orphanages and homes – meets with the matrons and their wards and he sits in the middle of their play hall, surrounded by the vulnerable, wary faces of children that had learned – firsthand and early on – how ugly the world could be, and he opens up about his childhood dreams, on reaching for the stars and how difficult it was to get from dreaming to standing in front of the Garrison with only one bag and the memory of his parents, his eyes sting and his heart beats painfully but the smile on his face is real. It's real and not broken and it's warm and he doesn't think about the way the matron wipes at her eyes, or the way some of the wards duck their heads and sniffle—

And when he roams his gaze about the children and the young teenagers nestled around the room, his gaze lands on one other. The young man – and it's obvious that he's the eldest in the group, and Shiro's only a month short of twenty, and the other looks like he's a year or two younger– is sitting at the back, in the corner, by the window and away from the group. Dark hair falling into his eyes, arms crossed over his chest, and a frown on his lips as he looks out the window.

Shiro doesn't call his attention, but he keeps an eye on the crossed arms and the dark hair as the matron stands as he wraps the entire thing up. He smiles gratefully at her, and he leaves the Garrison contact card with her and takes one look at the group of children — varying ages — and the one at the back who still hasn't turned to him.

It was just the first meeting, and should he get a positive response, he might come back.

He hopes.

* * *

"Might see potential in some, but time will tell. I got word from the matron that I can go back soon and have a simulation done to test potential recruits." Shiro says as he removes his boot, stretching his toes as he straightens on his spot at the bed. Adam is at the desk, an open tablet before him and the blue screen reflects off his glasses as he looks up at Shiro, smiling.

"That's great to hear. Sure, Iverson is a total asshole for his reasoning in getting you to do the marketing, but I would be lying if I said it wasn't effective." Shiro rolls his eyes at the amused gleam in his boyfriend's eyes — stretching his limbs as he walks over and leans by the desk, settling his chin by the seam of Adam's shoulders.

"Yeah. I'm just hoping that we actually get people interested in the Garrison." He breathes and closes his eyes as Adam's hand comes up to pet his cheek gently.

He feels the fingers comb through his hair and he sighs, all his muscles loosening. "They will, Shiro. They'll see the honesty in you and they'll want to go for it. If not all, then some."

A shift of the chair has Shiro opening his eyes, Adam turning in his seat, leaning close to leave him a kiss on his chin. "For the longest time here, I doubted my motivation for staying. I knew I didn't fit and I knew that I could be kicked out for being the weakest link—"

Adam presses a finger against his lips when Shiro's about to comment. The tender smile on his boyfriend's face has him relenting. "But I stayed, because you believed in me and it wasn't just something you said to make me feel better. You saw something in me that I never did and I wouldn't be here if it weren't for that. For you."

He looks into his boyfriend's eyes and sees the sincerity, and Shiro presses his forehead against Adam's. "Promise me something."

"Anything."

He opens his eyes, and Adam is bright in his vision. "Promise me this never ends."

Adam looks at him in the eyes, the hazel dark under the low light and the furrow of his brows and the fall of his hair. He's silent for a moment, just gazing at Shiro, as if taking in every detail — like something to be memorized over and over, and he leans in, whispering 'I promise' before Shiro feels his lips.

* * *

"You did a good job, though. A bit of pick-up on the reaction times, but good vision." Shiro smiles, patting the student's shoulder as he returns the controller to Shiro. He had failed the simulation, unable to catch up to the minimum score and the disappointed frown on his face had Shiro trying his best to keep his spirits up. Still, a fail was a fail and he handed the controller to the next student.

The next one up is a female student and she gives Shiro a shy smile as he places the controller in her hands and teaches her on the configuration. There's still a few more left for the simulation, all looking over shoulder as Shiro runs over the basics with her. The rest of the class - the ones that have done the simulation and failed sit at the sides, some with crossed arms, others uninterested. The dark-haired one is at the back of the class, by his corner, and he glances at the simulation from time to time — turning back to the window only when he thinks Shiro has caught him watching.

He keeps the smile off his face, masking it as he stands to the side and waits for the simulation to begin. The girl — the student — has good control on the movement of the aircraft but was easily rattled by the obstacles, and he hears the rapid tapping of the buttons as she starts to panic, moving her controller with her as she fidgets. When she ends up crashing into an outcrop, she pushes the controller back in his hands and he feels the sweat on it.

More or less, the same thing happens to the rest of the others still waiting for their turn, but Shiro doesn't really let it get to him. The simulation wasn't a make-or-break thing — it was just his way of seeing the potential in those interested, and even if they failed it, if he sees good reaction times and handling, it'd be possible to train them. He also keeps a surreptitious gaze on the student at the back, who was constantly looking back at the simulation when each student's name is called.

When the last is done — and failed, like almost rest of the class — the matron approaches him, smiling a bit dolefully. "Well, officer, I don't think we have potentials in this class."

Shiro waves her off with a hand, smiling. "The simulation just tests the possibility, it's not the final requirement, plus I don't think all of the students here have tried?"

The matron glances to the one at the back, and Shiro holds the frown as she sees irritation run over his features. She turns back to him, an artificial smile on his face. "Ah, I believe you're right. Keith? It's your turn."

Keith — the one at the back — looks up as Shiro turns to him, watches him purse his lips and stand, back hunched and curled in on himself as he walks up to the front. His head is ducked, and he doesn't even look at Shiro as he hands the controller. He's about to repeat the instructions when Keith speaks, voice low and quiet. "I know how this goes already."

The matron mutters his name harshly, but Shiro laughs it off, smiling at her and at Keith's head as he takes a step back. He doesn't miss the sneer and the judgmental looks in the other students' eyes and he keeps it to himself, locking the thought away.

The thing is—

Keith's amazing at it. He pulls the aircraft seamlessly and almost perfectly, barely grazing past the harder obstacles, and the movement of his fingers on the controller is calm and even, no hint of hesitation or panic. The rest of the class's attention is pulled to the screen, watching the aircraft barrel and circle about, heading to new locations that the rest weren't able to reach due to failing earlier. All the while, Keith stands, undistracted. Shiro looks at the seam of his shoulders and the economic movement of his hands and the concentration on his face and it's not even long until the simulation ends, a perfect score on the screen.

The class is silent — eyes wide as they look at the screen, dumbstruck — and the matron shifts her gaze to Keith and Shiro rapidly. Keith puts the controller down on the nearest desk and turns to him, head down and hair in his eyes and Shiro uncrosses his arms, grinning.

"Well, it looks like you're the only one who's left."

Shiro ignores the noise from his classmates and continues to grin at Keith. The other doesn't look up, but he does see a small curl of his lip — almost invisible in the shadow over his face — and when he does look up, Shiro meets purple-mauve glowing under the fluorescent.

* * *

"His name is Keith?" Adam asks from the living room and Shiro mutters a response as he heads to the kitchen, scratching his hip as he opens the fridge door.

"Yeah, good eye. He was the only one who passed the simulation. Didn't seem interested at the start, but definitely talented. Not even all of our current recruits can complete that game."

He hears Adam laugh, and Shiro pulls out a can of juice and sets it on the counter. "That's because that _game_ is set for expert-level simulations. Huh, if this Keith kid managed to complete it, then he really must have potential."

"I'm just waiting for the list from the matron," he comments, pouring the juice into a glass. The matron had promised to send him an initial list over the phone as soon as tomorrow and Shiro's interested to know if Keith's name would be there. The visits he's done in the other schools and academies had been well-received but the potential recruits weren't high a number as he expected. Still, he can't be choosy as he knows full well that being in the Garrison wasn't the easiest job at all. "If Keith's interested, it'd be a boost to our current list."

"I'm _interested_ to meet this Keith, see if he's as good as you say he is," Shiro grins at Adam as he walks into the living room, still dressed in his uniform pants and a plain white shirt. He grabs the glass and heads down the steps, aiming for space next to his boyfriend as he settles on the couch, his lesson tab on the table

He makes it to the final step when his hand shakes and the glass falls—

Shatters.

"Shit—" He gets out, eyes on the red-orange spill on the ground. Adam's looking at him and the shards on the ground, concerned.

"Slipped?"

"No," Shiro answers—quietly. He looks at the tremble of his hand and back to the shards again. "It fell. I dropped it or something."

He ignores the growing anxiety as he turns and looks for the broom and the mop, ignoring the feel of the juice under his feet. His hand is still trembling and he curls it into a fist, tight, as he presses it against his side, willing it to stop. He doesn't think about it or the cramps as he returns to the fallen glass and he starts cleaning it up.

"Shiro—" Adam calls, voice concerned. Shiro throws him a smile — even if it's only half-genuine.

"It's nothing. The glass was wet, my hand must have slipped."

His voice is only half stable, and there's a shrillness to it that is more alarming than soothing — even to Shiro's own ears — but he doesn't dwell on it as he hurries on cleaning the mess up. Adam is quiet, hasn't moved from the seat and it doesn't take long before Shiro's done, bringing it all to the trash can.

He wipes his hands on his pants and returns to the living room, sitting beside Adam. His boyfriend hasn't said anything yet, and Shiro just leans back and tries to even his breathing out — his hand is still pressed against his side, and he slowly relaxes the digits, feeling the blood return. He flexes them a bit, letting it rest at his side and it's not until he feels the gentle touch on his arm that he remembers that Adam is still there.

"You okay?" He asks, eyeing the side of Shiro's face.

Shiro nods, swallowing. "Yeah, I'm fine."

He feels the gaze on the side of his face, running over the cut of his hair and the line of his nose and the way he's biting his lip, the marks of his teeth on the delicate skin and when Adam's hand fall to his, their fingers linking, does he allow himself to fully relax.

"You had your interface yesterday, right?" Adam asks — and it's not without hesitation and Shiro squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, not liking the way his boyfriend sounded careful around him. He reaches out to tap his knee and nods, trying to forget about the fallen glass.

"Yeah, I did. Doc said it was good, still stable. It was just a slip."

"I know." Adam says, quietly, and Shiro looks at him — at the worried gleam in his hazel eyes, and the tightening of his brows and Shiro gives him an uneasy smile — the best he can offer, right now.

"I'm okay. Really."

Adam nods, concern still coloring his eyes as he returns the smile and turns back to his lesson log, hand still held in Shiro's. He leans back on the couch, and when he feels Adam lean against his shoulder as he opens his planner, Shiro finds it easier to pull the air in — like it's not covered in sand and shards.

He turns the holo-television on, but keeps the remoted pressed against the couch. A news program runs but he's not paying it any attention. His emotions are all over the place, flickering in and out of the center point of his mind and all he can think of is the slight tremble still coursing through his hand and the discomfort rearing in the muscles up his back and legs.

 _I'm fine. I'm fine._ He think to himself, tries to distract his mind with the scent of Adam's shampoo in the flaxen hair or the reporter's accented voice or the flashing of different colors across the screen.

 _I'm fine. I'm fine._

* * *

"I see and he's not on the list?" Shiro frowns, tapping his pen against the recorder on his desk. Outside his office, he hears the chatter of cadets and officers, and he looks out the window at the rush of beige and grey colored coats, listening to the matron on the other end.

"Unfortunately, I cannot put him on the list, officer." She says, voice polite but he can hear the hesitation in them. He frowns, pulling the recorder and the pad close, flipping the pen in his hand. The index finger of his other hand — the one holding the phone to his ear — is thumping against the metal repetitively, and Shiro grips the handle tight, focusing on her words.

"May I know why he's not on the list? Out of everyone, he seemed the best and the one with the most potential."

There's a pause on the other end, and Shiro puts the pen down, gripping the edge of the table. He feels the cold of the metal against his bare skin and he concentrates on it instead. "Well, Keith has...a history with us. He has a disciplinary record with local authorities and since he's our ward, we cannot allow him to leave unless this is taken care of by another entity."

Shiro raises a brow — sure, Keith may have seemed, well, standoffish and uninterested but he didn't necessarily seem the type to cause trouble. "What happened, if I may ask?"

The matron sighs, troubled. "Vehicular theft."

Shiro hums, curious. "Really?"

"Keith's had trouble before. He's not a bad person, he just...has troubles." The explanation is sad, even Shiro would not hesitate to think so. Still, he thinks it would be better to get to the source himself and see what really happened.

"I see. Anyhow, if you don't mind, I think I'd like to pay a visit this afternoon and talk to the potential recruits—and Keith."

The matron pauses, and he can feel her misgivings on the thought. "If you want to, officer."

The call ends and Shiro drops the phone, lips tight as the sound of it hitting the receiver echoes in the silence of his office. The outside world doesn't notice, of course, and Shiro's long given up on it noticing — what he does is stare at his hand, willing it to stop shaking, the fingers spazzing on their own.

"Stop, please." He voices, words almost inaudible. "Please stop."

He knows that it's only a matter of time before the ALS started acting up — he knew that, that's what his therapist had said, that's what the Garrison doctor had said — but he's been doing well, and the scans say that his muscles are doing fine, and they haven't atrophied yet and that his nerves were still functional, still _fine_ and not failing—

"Just get it checked, Takashi." He reminds himself — voices it aloud to put ground and stability to it and not just a whisper of his fear and his terror manifesting in the quiet. "Get it checked, have the doc tell you it's fine and it'll be fine. You're just panicking."

He nods to himself, promising to follow through on that thought as he stands — taking his jacket with him and makes for his hoverbike in the Garrison garage. He nods and smiles at the officers and cadets he meets, regardless of whether the curve of his lips is genuine or artificial. If he thinks it enough, he might believe it. Pretending has kept him onwards, and this far, and he can keep on going if he doesn't think of the tightrope he's on or the fear that he's hurtling towards a rapidly-approaching unbreakable wall.

His phone rings in his pocket and sees Adam's name on it, and he bites his lip, sliding to **DECLINE** before putting it back. He'll explain later, he tells himself. For now, he just needs to be on the bike and on the way to the orphanage and not think about anything else.

When he kicks the hoverbike into gear and he speeds through the sand and the craggy rocks, he feels nothing but the lashes and buffets of the wind against his skin and his jacket and his hair and the exhilaration in his veins, the forward momentum of gravity and speed as he rushes past the speed limit and the russet sand and the amber horizon continues to evade his reach.

Speeding is something he'd never admit to doing, especially when around other Garrison members, but it's one of the few rules he likes to bend — the few things that empties his mind, gets rid of anything unimportant until all he feels are the miles and the seconds racing to catch up to him.

The orphanage appears in the distance, and he circles about — lingering in the edges and just steadying his heart and his panting — before he parks the bike by a boulder. Heads turn to him from the windows, and the matron is out before he even gets to the front door.

"Officer, you're earlier than expected." She says, her smile struggling to remain on her face. Shiro gives a small one, the best he can come up and inclines his head.

"Got here faster. Anyway, do you mind if I talk to Keith out here for a bit before I meet the other recruits?"

She blinks at the brusqueness of his tone, but nods and runs back in. Shiro waits, crossing his arm as he gazes at the sunset in the distance — gold and amber, the edges of mauve growing near the horizon. His finger is tapping against his jacket, and he puts his hands in the pockets instead, breathing deeply.

The door opens and Shiro turns to find Keith walking up to him — silent, footsteps lined in hesitation, unsure of what Shiro's intentions are, no doubt — and when he gets to a pace away from Shiro, he stops.

"You wanted to talk to me, sir?" Keith's voice is low — flat and emotionless — but Shiro sees the way his arms are crossed and the shifting of his eyes under his fringe.

"Shiro, please." He greets, putting more of an effort in his smile than he did with the matron. Keith doesn't smile back or give any response, but it doesn't deter Shiro. "Anyway, I just wanted to congratulate you on your score regarding the simulation yesterday."

Keith nods — a slow up and down movement of his head that seemed more questioning than acceptance. Shiro shrugs at him, cocking his head to the side.

"You should be proud of yourself. I wasn't exactly forthcoming about the simulation with the rest of the class. That was not a beginner level run that you managed to complete in one go." Keith raises his head, surprised and wary at the confession. Shiro gives him an apologetic smile, raising a hand.

"Don't worry, everything from here on out will be the truth."

Keith is still quiet, looking at his hand before shifting to his face. "Okay."

"Anyway," Shiro continues, stepping closer. "The reason I'm here is because I wanna talk about a certain juvenile record. Vehicular theft, for example."

At the that, Keith stills before dropping his head, and Shiro can feel the ice and the air turn tangible between them. The other was defensive, almost painfully so, and Shiro can see the way he bites his lip and the press of his thumb against his finger. Keith's words are rough and angry. "What about it? Here to arrest me?"

Shiro shakes his head, for some reason knowing that Keith can see it even through the fringe of his hair. "No, actually. I just want to know why."

Keith doesn't answer him — not verbally, anyway. What he does is look up at Shiro — purple eyes hard and steely — before they flick to his hoverbike at the back and the helmet hanging off the handle. Shiro doesn't turn, but he sees a bit of longing in them before the disinterest covers them once more and he's set to looking like an uncaring teenager — or young man. Shiro reminds himself that he's not that much older.

Escape. Freedom. Possibility.

Those are the words that pop into his head as he memorizes the sliver of open emotion on Keith's face, turning it over in his head and he takes a look at the four walls of the orphanage — the tall windows and the steel-grated doors and he gets it, gets the idea that, for some, it's not the pretty home that tries to fix what's been abandoned but sees it as a chest with a lock and key for what's unwanted.

"You got talent, Keith." He cuts in, and he meets Keith's gaze. "It seems like a waste for it to just stay here, too."

"Not like I have a choice, not yet anyway," is the only response from the other and Shiro nods, remembering the file that matron sent him. Seventeen years of age, a year until Keith was considered a legal adult and he can make his own decisions. There are old bruises on his knuckles, Shiro notes, and the shirt he wears has holes in them in odd places.

"Tell you what," Shiro grins at him — Keith looks confused. "Why don't you meet me somewhere tomorrow? I'll show you something, might open your mind up on what you plan to do with the future."

Keith frowns, a brow running up and his face screws — indecisive and slightly suspicious. Shiro chuckles at it, gesturing to the orphanage. "Don't worry, it's nowhere illegal. I'll even message the matron about it and take full responsibility."

He crosses his arms as Keith takes his words in, and his eyes grow curious. "But you just have to promise me one thing: you just have to be there. If not, then I'll have a battalion make sweeps all over the place until I find you."

Keith takes a while to answer, mulling the words over — unsure — but he does nod slowly, lips set in a determined line and Shiro takes a look at the hunched shoulders and the angry cut of his hair or the lips that don't seem to know how to smile, and he whispers 'good' before giving him the address.

Keith repeats the words before nodding and Shiro watches him run back to the orphanage, looking back at him just once, before the matron comes. "Officer, I take it the talk went well? Would you like to speak to the rest?"

"I think I might have to take a rain check, ma'am," Shiro answers, walking back to the bike. The matron looks confused for a moment, words stammering for a bit.

"W-well, if that's the case, then do come back soon." Shiro nods, reminding himself to call her about meeting with Keith tomorrow after his exercise drills with the morning recruits.

He hoists himself up on the bike and takes a look at the orphanage before putting his helmet on. The blinders are drawn open, and he sees the faces of the curious wards pressed against the glass, wondering about the hoverbike and the owner. On the a distant window, near the edge by the wall, he sees dark hair and a pale face look out, and Shiro throws Keith a salute before putting his helmet on. When the engine starts and the bike hums under him, Shiro stretches his limbs before leaning forward, kicking sand and dirt into the air as he speeds off — and, a bit crazy and weird, feeling a purple-mauve gaze on his back as he pedals faster and farther.

* * *

"I tried to call you today, but you didn't pick up." He hears Adam's voice and he looks up from locking his hoverbike in the garage. His boyfriend is by the elevator, dressed in his uniform, smiling at him.

"Sorry, didn't notice it while biking," Shiro says — just a little lie, nothing major — as he locks the code of the navigator and makes his way to the other. He gives Adam a kiss on the cheek and a squeeze of the shoulder, walking with him into the lift.

"Oh, okay. Didn't know you were on a drive." Adam comments, reaching out to pat the sand away from his jacket. "Not exactly dressed for it, too."

Shiro gives him a look that has Adam rolling his eyes, and he leans close, bumping his shoulder against his boyfriend's. The lift doors close and he feels the shift in motion under his feet. "Don't worry, just needed a bit of fresh air. Got a headache from all the reports, and decided to visit Keith."

His boyfriend raises a brow, interested. "Ah, gathering the flock for your army?"

Shiro chuckles, pressing his hand into his jeans as the lift takes them up, the numbers slowly changing. "Yes, but this one might need some work first. Trying to pull in the interest. Hey, I was planning to visit the Space Exploration museum at the academy with him tomorrow afternoon. You want to come with?"

The doors open and a couple of officers enter, and both Shiro and Adam nod at them, moving to the side to continue their conversation. Adam looks up for a bit. "I have a class at four, but I can meet him for a bit before I have to go back."

"Great," Shiro grins, patting his back. "He's a good kid, I think. A bit on the quiet side but I don't think he's trouble."

Adam raises a brow. "Kid? Shiro, you're only two years older than him."

"Sorry, it's the orphanage thing. Keeps making me think of them as 'kids'."

"And he's not. He's close to seventeen. He's almost the same age we were when we started here."

Shiro nods, scratching his head at the amused look on Adam's face. "Yeah, okay, I get it. I'm acting like an old fart again."

His boyfriend chuckles a bit at that, and Shiro smiles at him, taking in the crinkle of his eyes and the neat comb of his hair. Adam's been taking to combing his hair back, giving him this professional look. It's a good look, Shiro admits, but he does miss the messy way it fell into his eyes often. At least he can still see that at home, and in the mornings when Adam's face is pressed against his arm or chest.

They reach their floor and walk out together, before Adam turns to him. "Oh, I forgot to tell you this but Major Holt — Sam Holt, Deep Space Division — wants to talk to you. He rang your office but you were out, so he decided to ring mine."

Shiro shrugs, unsure. "Any idea what it's all about?"

Adam pauses, looking about for a moment before leaning in. "Not sure, but I did hear Iverson talk about a potential spaceflight mission to Pluto."

Eyes widening, Shiro can't help the excitement curling over his lips. "Do you think that's why he wants to talk to me? Maybe get me involved in the mission?"

For a moment, the thought of a spaceflight mission — a potential one — has Shiro forgetting the buzzing in his head at the almost constant way he puts his hand against his pocket in an effort to still it. This was — is — everything he's been working for, the goal at the end of the line, stemming from a memory of his father hoisting him up his shoulders and the newspaper clipping of astronauts on Jupiter's moons.

And the last few years had been exhausting and tiring — and the days he spends looking at his hand and wondering when it was going to fail him hounding his every step, even in his sleep — but the news, even just the mere idea of it, has all of the earlier hesitations and fears draining away as excitement and anticipation began to bubble under his skin, an incessant drumbeat that he can hear in his ears and in his heart.

Adam turns a bit cautious, though there is a smile on his face. "I'm not sure, okay. It's just what I heard, but it could also be true? Anyway, we won't know until you talk to the major first."

Shiro nods, the smile on his face seemingly permanent as his thoughts start to pattern itself into whatever his imagination can bring up — space shuttles and the g forces straining against your body as you are taken into air and beyond, the inky black of space and the rush of stars and asteroids, Jupiter's red eye and Saturn's gleaming rings — and he can't help the hope threatening to burst from his veins. "Yeah, yeah, but still — imagine it, Adam. This is everything I ever wanted and imagine if I can get it, if I can get to outer space. It's like—my dreams are coming true."

Adam is silent, looking at Shiro with a small smile but his eyes are cloudy with some emotion he can't — doesn't — recognize but he doesn't really mind, it's late in the afternoon and Adam's had classes all day. His voice sounds supportive, low, as he speaks. "That'd be amazing, Shiro. If it's true, then you really deserve it."

Shiro laughs at that, ecstatic, and leans in to hug Adam close — arms tight and warm and his boyfriend hugs him back, just as tightly. "I know I'm expecting too much already but I just can't not think about it. This is the reason why I'm here, why I'm at the Garrison in the first place. I wouldn't have stayed here if not for that."

Adam smiles at his excitement, eyes crinkling and he squeezes Shiro's hand in his. The same emotion is still there, more distinct when he's this close, but Adam blinks and it disappears, eclipsed by the curl of his lips and the anticipation lingering. "Well, then, let's not keep the major waiting. I'm sure he'll be thrilled to set a date with you for whatever he'll be discussing."

"Don't worry about that, I'll be passing by Deep Space anyway, so I'll just pop in." Shiro waves him off, and he watches the frown grow on Adam's face.

"On the way there? Aren't we going home?"

Shiro pauses, remembering his earlier reminder to head to the infirmary for a check-up before he got sidetracked by the news of a potential spaceflight mission. The smile on his face grows stale, limp, but he manages to keep it in place as he scrambles for an excuse that won't worry the other. "Oh, I have a few reports to turn in, but you go on ahead, though. I'll be home in an hour or two. Don't wait up for me."

"Are you sure? Maybe it can wait tomorrow — I was planning to cook steak." Adam tempts, grinning. Shiro smiles back, desperate to say yes, but he can't miss this appointment. Not when visiting the orphanage and the news from Sam Holt were the only things that distracted him from the gnawing pain in his muscles.

And he didn't want Adam to worry — not when he's not sure, yet. Adam worries enough about him and Shiro doesn't want to add to the strain on the other — not when he had majority of the lecture sessions already keeping him up at night.

"I can't, I've put them off enough and Iverson will have my head if I don't comply." He tries to ignore the flash of disappointment in Adam's eyes, chest tightening as his boyfriend shrugs and gives him a small smile. He squeezes Adam's hand in his, and the smile grows genuine for a bit.

"Make it up to you soon, I promise."

Adam chuckles, nodding. "I'll hold you to that, Mr. Shirogane."

Shiro inclines his head, causing Adam to laugh again. "Anything you say, sir."

Adam laughs as he steps back and makes his way down the hall to their quarters, and Shiro stands, watching him go — the downturn line of his shoulders and the slow pace of his steps and he feels the weight on his chest growing heavier at the lonesome image.

But he can't think about that, not now, not when he has something else to worry about — the earlier fervor regarding Sam Holt slowly dissipating as he makes his way to the other end and down the steps where the infirmary was. He has to make sure — has to set this ghost to rest before he can move on to better things — to his dreams, to the spaceflight mission and if it's true — and he'll fight for it, tooth and nail and blood if he has to, because this dream — the desire to be out there, where nobody else has been — has been the only thing pushing him and powering him through the many trials in his way, starting with his parents' deaths.

He needs to make sure he gets to do that — at the earliest time possible — before his body turns on him and vanquishes whatever chances he has left on reaching space. Everything else is details, what matters most is what he's been reaching for his whole life.

Shiro squares his shoulders and makes his way down.

* * *

When he gets back to his room, Shiro has a hand on the wall and he's covered in sweat from head to toe and his breathing is ragged as he shuts the door behind him. The lights are dimmed, but the bedroom door is half-open, and it's dark inside. He doesn't hear Adam, and Shiro doesn't want to disturb his sleep — he keeps his movements slow and quiet, taking every inch by the minute and not rushing. He just needs to make the steps, change and pass out in Adam's arms and he'll be fine — he _is_ fine. Nothing is wrong, he's sure.

He manages to get to the kitchen and he turns the faucet on, the rapid fall of the water comforting in the buzzing in his head, the ache in his muscles that seemed to echo in his ears and he stands by the sink, hands on the counter and his head ducked, hunched over and just breathing, just stilling himself.

When he feels the warmth down his cheeks, he bites his lip and wipes it away, ignores the sting on his skin as he rubs the tears gone harshly. He sniffles but that's something he can't help, turning the faucet off and pulling his shirt off.

It takes forever, especially when Adam's not up to help, but he perseveres. He's managed to do so for so long before he even met Adam, when nobody had seen him at his worst, when all he had were his own bare hands picking the pieces off the floor.

This is fine. He can handle this. This isn't going to break him. This will never define him.

When he's changed, and he doesn't know how many minutes or maybe even _hours_ have passed, he makes his way to the bedroom. The covers are piled over a form on the right side, and Shiro sees flaxen hair glowing pale silver in the moonlight and he stands by the edge of the bed, just looking at Adam.

His boyfriend and bestfriend. The man who had been there for him when nobody else had — and holds more than just a part of Shiro's heart in his hands. He doesn't know what he had done to deserve him, to have this man be there for him when he needed him most and it's part of the reason why he wants to keep this quiet — secret — for now. Try not to worry him even further, not when he's busy and straining under the workload — the both of them are, but the world doesn't stop for time-old pain, it never does.

He climbs into bed, a hand in and his butt and then his entire form, taking more time than necessary, than usual. He curls in on his side and presses closes against Adam, an arm around his waist and his nose pressed against the nape, the curl of flaxen hair against his skin.

He doesn't notice his hand trembling against Adam's stomach, and had Shiro been more aware, he would have noticed that Adam's eyes are wide open.

* * *

"So, the major will be dropping by soon for the news?" Adam asks from the driver's seat. Shiro nods, flexing his hand as he takes a look out the window at the russet lines of the desert, craggy outcrops and the the dust spiraling upwards in the wake of the speeding car.

"Probably sometime this week, he just has to confirm a few things with Iverson."

Adam smiles at him from the other end and Shiro grins back, still feeling the excitement at the thought of the mission — and he tries to put away the hour-long interfacing last night. The Garrison doctor had reassured Shiro that he would be contacted immediately once the results were in. It was a different one, apparently — more thorough and took longer to process and, God, it felt like forever when he was strapped to the gurney and the electrical surging began.

The academy grows larger with each passing second, and Shiro sits up, leaning close to the dashboard. He had confirmed with the matron this morning if Keith had gone as he requested, and knowing he did had a smile lighting up on his face.

Adam notices, and pokes him in the side. "Should I be jealous of this Keith guy?"

Shiro rolls his eyes, poking him back. "Of course not. What could you be possibly jealous of?"

His boyfriend laughs, pulling the car into the parking area as they reach the academy and Shiro hums to himself as he spies Keith leaning against the far wall near the steps up the academy, in a black jacket with the hoodie up. Adam follows his gaze and makes a sound. "That him?"

"Yeah," Shiro answers, already stepping out of the car and putting his hands in his pockets. "I'm not gonna lie, I'm actually surprised he came."

Adam looks at him over the hood of the car, hazel eyes a bit perturbed. "Is he really that standoffish?"

A shrug is his response, walking around the car to stand by his boyfriend's side. Adam places a hand on Shiro's wrist, the one exposed by the jacket's sleeve and inside his pocket and it takes a while — and a lot of hesitation — for him to pull it out and wrap his fingers around Adam's hand. His hand isn't trembling for now, and he's utterly grateful for that. The pain and the ache up his back and legs are manageable, and he can even ignore them as he makes his way to where Keith was.

He sees the other kick himself off the wall, and the purple-mauve eyes fall on their linked hands, looking up only when Shiro and Adam were well within his reach. "Hope you haven't been waiting long?"

Keith shrugs. "Not much."

Adam turns to him at the short response, but Shiro smiles, regardless. The sun was beating down on the desert, as usual, but the tall academy walls lent them shade. He makes a gesture to his side. "Oh, and this is Adam."

"Nice to meet you," his boyfriend greets, reaching a free hand out. Keith takes it — tentative — before shaking it.

"Keith."

Shiro sees the singular response throwing Adam a bit, his boyfriend giving him a look, but he doesn't react. Keith seems to be making an effort to be here and listen to him, and Shiro's happy enough knowing that he wouldn't have to sic a battalion on the kid had he disappeared somewhere. In spite of his earlier reservations about Keith, him showing up was already proof enough that the interest is there. All it needs is a little prodding.

"So, shall we head inside?" He asks and gets a nod from him, Adam patting his shoulder has he pulls his hand away from his.

"You guys go on ahead, I need to head back to the Garrison." Shiro nods at him and squeezes his hand once more before Adam completely pulls away, smiling at him and nodding at Keith before turning back to the car.

Shiro watches him pull the car out of the area and drive off, Keith standing beside him — also watching.

"Is he your—" Keith cuts himself off, voice disappearing as Shiro turns to him with a raised brow.

"My boyfriend? Yes, he is." Keith nods at the response, doesn't elaborate why he had to ask and Shiro doesn't mind, reaching out to pat him on the back.

"Let's go on, then. Got a lot of things to show you."

Keith follows him up the steps, half a pace behind him, and his voice travels up to him when he admits that it's his first time here. Shiro grins at him. "Oh, well, you really have to see all of it now."

They spend the entire afternoon exploring the museum — marveling at the replicas of space shuttles and satellites in large pedestals across the halls, reading through the lines of text below hanging renders of constellations and a photowall of the the astronauts that first landed on Jupiter's moons. The halls are not crowded, populated mostly by students and a few tourists and they're left relatively alone.

Shiro takes the time to see the wonder and the interest grow in the purple-mauve eyes as they stand before the photowall and read the messages. Keith's voice is quiet when he speaks but Shiro hears it, regardless. "I can't even imagine what it's like outside this desert."

Shiro turns to him, finds the gaze on the replica of the moon — Titan. "You've never been outside the desert?"

Keith shakes his head, not looking away from the plaque. "Never. Dad promised to take me outside once, somewhere with a lot of mountains and trees but he never got to."

Shiro pockets the information away, curious enough to want to ask about it, but the awkwardness and the tightness in the other's voice has him refraining. If not now, then maybe another time.

They continue to explore the museum, Shiro pointing out memorabilia of the Garrison's history — the Jupiter astronauts, the first satellite past the solar system, discovery of new constellations and galaxy clusters near great attractors — all the while, Keith is silent as he follows Shiro, but his eyes are wide as he takes it all in, until they're standing in the planetarium where a backdrop of black reached as high as the ceiling and enveloped the entire room, miniature planets revolving around the Sun, a million stars dancing around all of it.

"This could be something you can have, Keith." Shiro says, smiling — and the words are true as the other looks at him. All he needs is the confirmation from Sam Holt, but the rest he can already imagine and expect — even if a part of him still thinks it's too good to be true — but it can be true, if he just believes and puts his mind to it. "This is everything you could be, and I can see it, Keith. I can see that potential in you."

He stands close and puts a hand on Keith's shoulder. "What you do with that potential is up to you."

Keith looks at him something fierce and bright. There's hesitation in the curl of his lips, or the way he ducks his head as the hair falls into his eyes — and it's a sight he's once seen, in a flaxen-haired man who nobody believed in, and Shiro can see it — see the distrust and the lack of faith and, yeah, it's not like Shiro has the right to call it for what it is — when he's only half-sure of things as they are right now — but he can see what Keith could be if he just believed.

"You can be so much more, Keith."

When Keith finally nods — and it's both in response to his words and an answer to an unspoken question — he only smiles back and squeezes the shoulder. Keith hesitates for a second only before his own lips curl up in a smile.

It's a sight that has Shiro feeling a warmth in his chest at the wonder in Keith's eyes, and he can only hope to deserve even a sliver of that.

* * *

"He looks up to you." Adam comments, and Shiro turns to him after Keith disappears over the corner of the hall with the rest of the other cadets. It was his first week in, and Shiro can already see the exhaustion lining his eyes, unused to the grittiness and the physical demands of working as an astronaut. His boyfriend is standing outside his office, leaning on the wall and he grins at Shiro when he looks about the empty hall and leans close to give him a peck.

Adam hums after Shiro pulls away. "Hello to you."

Shiro raises a hand, pressing a thumb softly against the other's jaw. The disparity of their skin — his pale one against the tan-caramel of Adam's — has something welling up in him, at the colors and the fall of Adam's hair over his hazel eyes. He remembers his words and blinks. "Who looks up to me?"

His boyfriend laughs, a disbelieving brow raised. "Keith. Oh, don't look at me like that. He worships the ground you walk on."

Shiro frowns, shaking his head. "Uh, no, he doesn't. He glares at me. Like all the time."

The other shakes his head, unconvinced. Adam's hand is on his shoulder, playing with the cut of his hair. The smile he gives Shiro is smaller, but still genuine and there's nothing but affection shining in his eyes. God, he's still so beautiful, and he's so distracted that he misses the other's words. "What?"

Adam gives him an irritated look with no heat, only a teasing lilt to his voice. "I said, maybe he looks at you like that when you can see him, but when you have your back turned, he's practically staring at you."

Shiro chuckles at that, still finding it hard to believe that Keith would look at him — or anyone else, for that matter — with anything but the disinterested, unimpressed gaze that seemed more and more like a permanent fixture as the days go by.

The hazel eyes that are roving over his face, though — those are eyes that look at him with so much affection and acceptance that his chest is practically overflowing with it. Adam leans close and whispers. "Before, when you didn't notice, I used to look at you like that, always afraid of what will happen if you'd look back all of a sudden."

Shiro steps closer, a hand moving around Adam's waist — the slender form that has grown and developed over the months in the Garrison, and he feels his boyfriend's front pressed against. His nose grazes Adam's, and he can smell sandalwood like a heady drug — can count the light dust of freckles under his eyes and the scatter of ochre in the hazel.

Adam's breath fans over his lips, and Shiro shivers. "And now?"

"Now, all I want to do is look at you and see you already looking back at me." He confesses, and Shiro makes a whining noise, leaning in to kiss him, feeling the hand wrap around his shoulder to pull him closer.

The door to his office opens, the shadows of their tangled legs dancing in the cut of light, before its shut close — locked.

* * *

As an officer, Shiro knows that he's supposed to keep a bit of distance from his cadets. He can't allow himself to be emotionally compromised — and falter in the hard decisions that have to be made. He's not there just to teach and watch, but also to help the recruits grow — and cull those who don't have what it takes to survive in the long run. Sure, he doesn't have to be an _asshole_ like Iverson but he can't be as open with the cadets as he had been with Keith outside the Garrison.

And with Keith as part of the new recruits roster, Shiro realizes the chains of his position as he looks over the training modules and oversees the classes and pretends that the purple-mauve gaze on him is nothing more than one student among the others.

He doesn't even know much about Keith — but Shiro feels this bond between them, and he's noticed it from the moment the cadet had taken a look at his hoverbike and Shiro saw the longing, when he had stood near the photowall of the museum for almost an entire hour just watching the cut-out of the astronauts who landed on Titan and Shiro knows that everyone in the Garrison probably has dreams like those, and they're probably the reason for each of them here, but Keith's different.

Keith reminds Shiro of himself — in a way. Not the bruises on the hands, or the reticent words or even the way he curls in on himself.

Shiro sees the desperate longing in the eyes, sees the drive in every word taken in without a single response and he sees the fragile hope of _more —_ more than what he's been given, more than what life has set out for him, more than the gaping emptiness of where his mother and father used to be.

He sees the talent and the speed, sees Keith's score climbing faster and higher up the list and he soon starts to hear the talk — and it's funny because it's exactly what happened to him — him and Adam — and he can guess where it's heading, where the rumors are taking him as he sees more of the jealousy and the envy on the other cadets' faces as Keith passes by in the hall, unwilling to talk to anyone, head ducked and eyes on the ground.

But he looks up, and smiles, when Shiro is on the other end and Shiro can't help but throw a proud smile his way — Keith hasn't disappointed him, and Shiro's faith hasn't been misplaced. Oddly, the idea makes him feel more successful than all the other cadets that he's passed in the last few months.

"You really like him, don't you?" Adam asks, smiling at him over the rim of his mug at breakfast. Shiro chews, shrugging.

"He's scrappy but determined. I think what he needed all this time was just someone to see him and believe in him."

Adam sets the glass down and leans his head on his hand, the light painting his skin in gold-tan, hazel flashing.

"You're really something, Takashi Shirogane."

Shiro doesn't know what to make of those lines — the ambiguous emotion in Adam's voice or the distracted, unfocused look in his eyes, head still turned towards him — but he gestures with his lip, tapping his shoe against his boyfriend's. Adam doesn't really say anything else, continues eating and Shiro feels his eyes on him every few seconds.

He feels something has changed — but he doesn't know what. It's not worrisome, not at all, but it's just — it's strange. There's something in between them, and Shiro's not sure if he had caused it or if it's just part and parcel of what it means to grow older and mature.

Still, nothing inside his heart has changed.

He still loves Adam, even if the need for the words to be said is barely existent — and when his boyfriend ducks his head and his hair gleams like a halo, Shiro thinks that the words aren't necessary at all.

* * *

Shiro is still staring — mouth agape and heart pumping hard in his chest. He's thought about it — expected it even though his brain told him that it was foolish to expect things without ground — and he's certainly fantasized about it every second his mind can pull him away from his work or from the recruiting or from the incessant, unceasing ache reaching up his back and down his arms.

Sam Holt's lips are curled in an amused smile as Shiro tries to find the words, his lips parting and moving but nothing intelligible escapes, nothing but gibberish. To the side, even Adam is surprised, hazel eyes wide behind his glasses and his head keeps turning from him to the major slowly, like he can't believe what he's hearing.

"Of course," Sam continues, spearing a slice of the fish on his plate with a fork, "we are still finalizing the logistics of the Kerberos initiative and it might not be for another few months, maybe even a year. I, however, wanted to have a clear set on who's going with me."

"Sir—" Shiro begins, but his voice falters. It's not like Sam had said it was necessarily him. No, he only had _confirmed_ that the rumor was true, that there really was — is — a deep space mission to the fringes of the solar system and, sure, the rumor mill in the Garrison had always been hit-and-miss in the past, but this was something _big,_ something that was far more ambitious than what the Garrison had ever done.

He tells himself not to expect too much — tries to even his breathing and slow down the pitter-patter of his heart against his ribs and just prepare himself for the possibility of disappointment. It was the smart thing to do, right? The logical thing?

Adam's hand is on his thigh under the table, and he grips it tight.

Same angles his head and his lips curl. "Of course, it's a high-priority mission that will catapult space exploration by light years and we'll need the best to pilot the shuttle. Who else could be more appropriate than our own golden boy, right Takashi?"

He can't believe it. He _can't_ believe it. He can't wrap his mind around it. The noise and the hopes and the expectations are all wiped clean — a blank slate — and there's nothing but a buzzing in his ears as Sam Holt continues to grin and Adam turns to look at him, lips parted in surprise. Shiro doesn't even say anything, can't even turn his lips up in a smile or make a sound or just—

His eyes sting and his hands curl into fists and he bites his lips as he swallows. "Um, I-I, sir, I don't know what—uh, um—I, I-I—"

"You, you, you," Sam prods, a teasing lilt to his tone as he reaches forward and grips Shiro's shoulder tight. The touch is enough to snap him out of whatever the hell he's in and then the excitement takes over his mind and his body, a wide grin growing. "I mean, honestly, Takashi, this is what you've been aiming for, right?"

"Yes, sir!" His voice is loud, exuberant and he blinks away the sting in his eyes as he wipes his hand down his face. "I just, this is amazing, sir, I can't—holy _shit._ "

The words escape him without his awareness but Sam laughs instead of berates, and he's patting Shiro's shoulder as he tries to control his emotions and his words.

"Son, I don't think anyone else could fit the role better than you. Your history and track records are impeccable, and not to mention your reputation — my son even admits to respecting you, and honestly, that's high praise from him."

Shiro both hears and ignores the words, and he's not really seeing the major, his mind on the hope and the possibility that he can do this — he can finally make his dream a reality and not be weighed down by his own body's limitations and it's been the goal, the only end of the line he's been aiming for when he stepped off the bus and down to the sandy ground and stood in front of the Garrison. His fist is pressed against his thigh, the knuckles digging into the skin but he barely feels any of that — all he feels and all he notices is the rushing in his ear, the hammering of his heart against his ribs and the smile that threatened to rip his face in half.

"So, what do you say, son? Ready to be our pilot?" Sam asks, a knowing look already in his eyes.

Shiro doesn't even _hesitate._ "Yes, sir! Of course, sir! I wouldn't miss it for anything."

His excitement is rolling off him in waves, and he knows Sam can feel it as he chuckles and nods approvingly. Shiro grins at him — and he turns to Adam and smiles at him. There's still a look of surprise on his boyfriend's face as he returns Shiro's gaze but he does give a small one back at Shiro, turning to face Sam.

"Yes, this has been something Shiro has worked all his life." Adam comments, and there's a sort of edge to his voice that Shiro hears, but it gets lost over the din of his own heartbeat and reverberating words of _I'm going to do it, I'm going to do it, I'm going to do it._

The entire dinner passes by with only half of Shiro's attention — brought on over by the echoes of what he's about to accomplish and what he's about to achieve, and it's the thought that keeps bouncing off the walls of his mind and it's the same thought that still has the smile on his face as he reaches out to grip Sam's hand when they end — shaking it vigorously. "Thank you so much, sir. Oh my _God,_ I can't tell you how much this means to me."

Sam waves off his gratitude and squeezes his hand. Adam stands to the side, in the peripheries of his vision. "Please, son. You want this as just much as I do. Now, it's late and I know you both still have classes tomorrow morning. Takashi, I'll have the documentation sent to your office and have the logs emailed as soon as we're able."

They wave goodbye to the scientist, and Shiro can't help but laugh and chuckle as he makes his way back to his quarters. He's lost in the fantasies that the news has brought him — already imagining how it's going to feel like, everything he's going to see — to finally read about gravitational forces and ice formation in space and being able to say _'I've seen that, I've been there'_ and just — the end goal of all the struggles he's had to go through, the hurdles and the mountains he had to jump over just to get him from then to now.

It's not until he opens the door and turns to close it does he realize Adam's been behind him all this time, and he almost shut the door in his face. "God, I'm sorry, I didn't see you there."

His boyfriend gives him a strained smile, waving his apology away as he closes the door after himself. Shiro grins at him, still on the momentum that the Kerberos initiative jettisoned him off. He knows he's being somewhat silly — the mission isn't even for another few months and even _that_ is still up for debate, but knowing that he's going to be part of that — that there is a finality, a ground and stability to his dreams, through the blood and sweat and sand and tears, it's just—it's just overwhelming.

"This is amazing. This is amazing." He repeats to himself, still in disbelief. "I'm going to outer space. Holy shit."

Adam smiles at him from the side when Shiro turns to him, and he watches his boyfriend head over to the bedroom, pulling his jacket off him. Shiro follows, elation nipping at his heels. He helps Adam take the coat off and loops his arms around his boyfriend's waist, resting them over his stomach and his fingers playing on the buttons of his dress shirt.

"I still can't believe it. I think I'm dreaming." His words are barely audible as he whispers them over the lobe of Adam's ears, and presses his nose against his boyfriend's shoulder. "I'm going to be _out_ there."

He's still lost in his reveries, but Shiro is anything but slow, and it takes a bit but he does begin to notice — the tension in Adam's shoulders, the rock-solid stillness he's gotten, and the way his breathing is forced to sound even, like he's trying to calm himself down. Shiro leans back, frowning, confused. His boyfriend had been smiling earlier, supportive, but he feels taut and rigid. "Is everything okay?"

Adam keeps silent for a moment, and when Shiro says the words, his shoulders do this motion where they bunch up but he tries to still them, and Shiro is starting to get concerned, arms falling from around his boyfriend's waist. "Adam?"

His name seemed to do the trick as Adam turns, frowning. His brows are furrowed, and his eyes are troubled and when he faces Shiro fully, his arms cross over his chest — defensive. Shiro isn't sure what's happened or what he's done wrong, Adam doesn't usually look, well, not angry but frustrated and guarded.

"It's fine. I'm happy for you." He says, and he tries to wipe away the frown from his face but the smile that comes up after is tremulous. His voice sounds thin, like it's walking on tightrope. Shiro feels his excitement die down as he raises a brow, trying to keep his voice in check at Adam's weird behavior.

"Are you angry with me?"

Adam doesn't shake his head, merely looks at Shiro. His eyes aren't steely, but they widen for a moment before they turn _hurt._ "Are you serious?"

At this — defensiveness and the barely-reigned in irritation — Shiro grows annoyed. "I wouldn't know what I did wrong if you don't spit it out, Adam."

"I can't believe you," Adam grouses. His arms cross even further over his chest. "I'm talking about the mission!"

Shiro pauses — disbelieving. "You're angry because of that? Don't you know this has been something I wanted for so long?"

His boyfriend shakes his head, the hurt in his eyes mixing with frustration. Shiro doesn't know what to make of it, his own arms crossing over his chest — if anyone's hurt here, it's _him._ Adam knows how important this is — knows intimately how important this has been to him for as long as they had known each other.

"I'm not angry about your dream, Shiro. Nobody could ever hate your dream." Adam says, trying to be placating. Shiro doesn't feel relief at the action in the slightest, but he tries to keep the irritation at bay, together with the tight fist his hand had become.

"Then why? We were having a good time and you start acting like this."

Adam breathes deep, the frustration disappearing but the hurt remains. Shiro doesn't like seeing it there — doesn't like the look it gives his boyfriend, the downturn of his brows or the heaviness in his hazel eyes or the slant of his shoulders as he hunches in. Shiro doesn't want to see it there at all but he has no idea why it's even _there_ in the first place.

"Okay," Adam clears his throat, but his voice still wobbles when he speaks, and Shiro has to hold himself back from asking _why._ "Okay. How long is this mission going to be?"

Shiro shrugs, looking up at the ceiling, a bit thrown off by the question. "Depends on our engines, but give or take a year? Possibly more if the extraction is going to be slow."

Adam purses his lips at the response, looking at the ground, eyes bright. "And what happens after?"

"If the mission is successful," Shiro begins, feeling oddly cold at the image of Adam wrapping his arms around his stomach, like he's trying to keep himself back. "Then there are gonna be more missions, more flights, maybe even farther than this solar system."

"And you'll want to be on those missions, too, right?" Adam asks, voice growing soft — fragile.

"Of course! I would want to, knowing how much time I have—" Shiro cuts himself off, his chest tightening, turning into ice as he realizes what he's said. "I'm not—you know this disease doesn't define me, Adam. You know that. You told me yourself."

"I know, Shiro." Then why? What was with the lips pulled downwards? What was with the sad, pained hazel eyes and the loneliness rolling off him.

"Then why are you angry and sad?" Shiro asks, genuinely confused. Adam blinks rapidly.

"Where do I come into this, Shiro?" He asks — and the question hits Shiro like a ton of fucking _bricks._ Adam looks into his eyes. "Where am I going to be in this plan of yours?"

"Adam—what," Shiro stutters, unable to look away from the hurt in the other's eyes. "Of course you have a place in it, you'll be here and—"

"Waiting for you?" Adam asks. "Missing you for an entire year? For a decade? Every second of my life?"

Shiro's eyes shut, and he takes a step back, shaking his head. His heart is tight, and whatever remained of his earlier happiness fades as he flexes his hands, trying to find something to do to distract him from the way his heart is beating painfully against his ribs. "Don't. Don't act like this, Adam. Be happy for me, please? This is everything I wanted, you know that."

"I _am_ happy for you." Adam asserts, voice growing stronger. "You have no idea how happy I am knowing you're going to make your dreams come true."

The confusion tangling with the hurt across his features must tip Adam off, as he steps close and puts a hand on Shiro's shoulder. It doesn't feel that comforting — only a bit. "I mean it, Shiro. Nobody can hate your dream — it's too beautiful."

Shiro makes a gesture with his lips, unable to find the words. Adam closes his eyes, trying to hold back the liquid gleam. "I just—I'm not just a spectator here, Shiro. I thought we were doing this together, to talk about it together."

"We are," Shiro insists, but the words and the tone are thin, a spider-web tangle of emotions he can't decipher himself. "We are doing this together."

Adam doesn't answer him — and he gives Shiro a look he can't read, this same look he's had in the last few days, and Shiro's tired and irritated and he can't, no, he doesn't want to do this. This was supposed to be an enjoyable night — it was supposed to be the happiest night of his life but somehow, somewhere, it soured and blackened, and he doesn't feel good at all. He doesn't feel good around Adam, not now.

Maybe Adam sees it in his eyes, or maybe Adam can feel it off him like a haze because he drops his eyes and his voice is barely a decibel above the silence and the ragged breathing. "We'll talk about this tomorrow, yeah? Let's just—get some sleep."

Shiro can't look at him, his vision is unfocused as he turns his head, side-to-side, not really seeing Adam or the room. He can't be here, not right now. "Just go on ahead."

"Shiro—" He hears his boyfriend's voice is pained, but Shiro doesn't—he just needs to be alone right now.

He tries to give Adam a supportive smile — although it feels more like a grimace — and waves him off, turning away and leaving their quarters. He hears Adam call for him but he doesn't turn, closes the door behind him.

He has no idea where his feet take him, as he walks through the halls and up the stairs — his mind is on Adam's words and the hurt in his chest, and the ugliness growing, and whatever euphoria he had felt earlier had now blackened, and it felt like a festering sickness inside him. He doesn't—can't breathe right, and he feels uncomfortable in his own skin—

He ends up at the upper deck of the Garrison, and the moon is large and shining above him. It's a beautiful sight—

But he doesn't feel better at all.

* * *

Things don't get better between them.

Adam looks at him with hurt eyes — and even though he tries to hide them, tries to put on a brave smile on his face when Shiro returns in the morning. Shiro, on the other hand, isn't that good enough an actor pretend to be something he's not — to act like he's not hurt and he's not unwell. Adam's face falls when Shiro doesn't look at him in the eye, when he only mumbles a greeting over his shoulder as he heads to the shower, not even kissing him on the cheek.

Adam doesn't call him, but he feels the hazel-eyed gaze boring into his back as he shuts the door behind him. Shiro doesn't look at himself in the mirror, and his hand trembles against the steel of the bathroom sink, and he ignores the incessant tapping as he turns the shower on.

When he finishes, Adam is gone and Shiro doesn't feel better — the maw in his chest grows deeper and wider.

Their co-officers start to notice the silences between them — they no longer resemble the placid, almost easy ones, this is tangible and heavy, and Shiro doesn't want it there — he doesn't want this wall between him and Adam. It hurts to think of shutting Adam out, but he can't look at his boyfriend and not feel _hurt,_ not feel like all his struggling and crawling to get to where he is was pointless all along. He knows Adam doesn't think that way—

Adam was a good person, a kind person, and Shiro loved — love _s —_ him, but he can't stop feeling like he's at a crossroad where both paths lead off the edge of the same cliff.

They've had arguments before — sure, any normal couple would — but this is different. When they fight, they fight — they say the wrong words and they apologize, they make up to each other for it. This was different — this didn't feel like an argument, not at all. This felt like a diverging, like he's heading one way and Adam is on another and there was no turning back.

He doesn't know what to do — he could pretend to be okay, to act like nothing has changed but things _have_ changed, and the worst part — he doesn't know what.

"What do you see when you look at me?" He asks — out of the blue — and his voice is tight, strained. Keith looks up from beside him as they stand and watch the desert on the upper deck of the Garrison.

Keith doesn't answer immediately — he never does, Shiro notes. He observes first, always gauging the waters, baby steps on thin ice. The purple-mauve of his eyes flicker blue under the starlight.

"What do you mean?"

Shiro frowns, chest tight. "When you see me, when you look at me and you know what I want — what my dreams are — what do you see?"

Keith turns to him, head up, and SHiro doesn't look down. He continues to stare up at the moon and feel like he's an impostor in the wrong skin, a ghost trying to wrap its tendrils down to the bone and muscle in a fucking ugly caricature — a parody — of existing. The tremble of his hands is an unceasing drumbeat against his chest, like a second heartbeat and it feels disgusting.

"I see a good person." Keith answers, low and hesitant — but it's genuine. Shiro notes one more thing about Keith — he's unfailingly honest. Shiro feels like he needs that, most of all.

"I don't feel like a good person sometimes." _Or even a person._ Shiro answers, hoarsely. Keith is quiet, but Shiro feels the tap of his hand against his own.

"It's okay not to. You're only human."

The words feel both like an answer and a question that's been plaguing him ever since he knew what it means to be a person.

All his life, when he thinks on what he's lost and what he's about to lose — when he looks at his hand and sees only the muscles and the nerves withering with each passing second, he had thought being human meant knowing what it mean to lose — a cycle of loss and gain and you end up living and winning and gaining things just to offset and compensate for what you've lost — and it's a cycle doesn't end, up hurtling down back up again, like a fucking marionette on strings.

He escorts Keith back to his quarters and dread and the now-familiar cold in his chest grows when he makes his way up to his and Adam's room but half-way, his phone rings.

"Takashi," it's the Garrison doctor. "I need you to head to the medical bay. There's something you need to know."

* * *

The electro-stimulator band in his hand is light, and the steel covering feels icy on his bare hands. Weird, for something so small, it feels like it's crushing him with the weight of an entire mountain. Shiro doesn't know how he does it — how he breathes through the ichor and the blood and the sand.

His eyes are dry but they burn, the tracks down his cheeks have gone but they stick to his skin like spiderweb thin veins, creeping over very open plane, every inch until he's covered in his own ruin. His heart beats, but it feels like he's submerged in water and it's pumping poison and tar instead of blood. He doesn't know what will come out if he rips his skin open — if it's the scarlet red of blood or just bile and ooze.

He doesn't feel alive, and he doesn't feel like he's real. He feels ancient in his bones, and even they feel like they're fragile enough — a stray wind can shatter them, splinter them. He doesn't feel strong. He doesn't feel strong at all.

 _The electro-stimulator isn't a cure, it's only a brief respite from the muscle cramps and the pain the atrophy brings. I'm sorry, Takashi, we tried to hold this off for as long as we can, but it's here._

The words echo in his mind, they appear along the lines of his skin and muscles, and when he looks at the band, it's written on the screen in bright-red ink. Shiro doesn't say anything — he doesn't have the strength.

He doesn't even know where he got the strength to get this far — not when this has been something he's been putting of and denying. He knew that there was a limit — and that this was a time-based game he was playing — but the unfairness of it hadn't struck home until now.

Until he had been a hand away from his dreams, and it snatches the opportunity from Shiro before he can even move.

The bedroom is quiet when Adam opens the door. Shiro's sitting at the foot of it, his back against the base, and he doesn't look up when the lights open and Adam sees the strewn bedsheets and the shards of all the glasses he's broken in his despair.

"Shiro." His boyfriend's voice is shocked, afraid and when he looks up, his hazel eyes are wide.

"I'm sorry." It's the first thing he says, and even that feels like it's not enough. Shiro doesn't know what's enough anymore. "I'll clean up in a bit. I just—needed to."

Just needed to let it all out until he's exhausted every emotion he feels. Just needed to explode and let the misery and the ugliness unfold and unravel like a bomb waiting to set off. Just needed to feel something but the gaping jaws of the abyss under his feet.

"It's worse. It's getting worse." He confesses, and Adam looks from him to the band in his hand. "And nothing can stop it."

It's ironic — the way they reunite when Shiro feels like he's run into the dead end of an unbreakable wall. Adam's bag falls to the ground and Shiro gets an armful and the entirety of his boyfriend and he feels the shaking, the wracking cries against his own chest. Adam's arms are around him, tight and warm and comforting, but Shiro doesn't feel any of that. Tears are hot on his neck, and the press of his boyfriend's glasses against his jaw is painful, but he doesn't notice.

Adam breaks in his arms. Shiro doesn't think he was ever whole to start with.

* * *

Sam Holt's face falls when Shiro tells him — and the brown eyes are haunted when he returns Shiro's gaze. The words fall short and the implications bubble in the silence in between — what's going to happen to the Kerberos initiative, who's going to pilot the shuttle when Shiro isn't even sure if he can still move his hands in, what, a week, a month, a year?

Everything he's worked for, worked _towards,_ falls apart and not a single pinprick is heard. Shiro's lips are tight — shut — and he nods mechanically, not listening to the words when Sam tries to console him, tries to reason and put the initiative off until they get a diagnosis — another one, the hundredth after the thousandth.

Shiro's not wired for loss.

He's not wired for loss at all.

* * *

Adam tries — that's what Shiro sees, and on any other day, before this, before the band around his arm, his heart would have grown to a sizes far larger than his body could hold it in. Adam tries and he tries his best — to be the supportive boyfriend, the pillar holding Shiro up.

He tries to be patient, his smile growing strained as Shiro refuses to answer in more than two-three syllable responses. When Adam asks what he wants for lunch or what Shiro wants him to prepare, it's the same response. When Adam suggests that they go out for a drive, Shiro doesn't even look at him as he stares at the rim of his coffee mug, mumbling his answer. When Adam's face falls every time he opens his mouth and he sees the circles growing deeper under his eyes, Shiro can't feel anything but the hole growing bigger, and the mud in his veins growing thicker.

 _I don't know. I don't know. I don't know._

He says them — repeats them over and over at every question, every call of his name, every attempt Adam tries and he repeats them as Adam stops and cuts himself off, as he puts his arms around him and ducks his head and Shiro says them over and over as Adam locks himself in the bathroom and the words ring in his ears as he pretends not to notice the ragged breathing and the stifled sobbing from behind the door.

When he catches sight of a photo on the kitchen counter, his face pressed against Adam's and they're smiling widely at the camera, Shiro doesn't recognize the dark hair, the taupe eyes and the bright grin.

He looks at a mirror and sees an outline in black ink, and the hollow of where his face should be. It doesn't scare him — he doesn't think he can feel fear anymore.

How could you be afraid of losing when you've already lost everything?

* * *

He and Keith race across the desert. Keith laughs — and it soars above the rush of the wind.

Shiro doesn't laugh. He pushes the hoverbike faster and farther and stronger.

Sand is thrown in the air as twin hoverbikes cruise alongside one another.

The sun is gold on the horizon.

There's a cliff up front.

Keith calls his name in alarm, heading to the side to avoid it.

Shiro doesn't stray from his path, eyes on the edge of the abyss.

The hoverbike engine is warm under him, and the echo of his name is barely audible in the rushing of his ears.

Earth disappears under him and he's flying — weightless, zero gravity.

He only sees the gold of the sky and the endless horizon and possibility.

The hoverbike falls.

He's hurtling to the ground, eyes still on the sun — taking it in, memorizing every detail even as it _burns_ its image into his retina. It's a star — a star that takes billions of years to die but death is certain, and yet, it still burns bright and unrepentant.

Gravity pulls him down, and just as he's about to collide, he pulls up the thrusters and adjusts the weight and velocity and he continues speeding on the ground, and a realization burns at the center of his mind.

* * *

"What the hell, Shiro?" Keith shouts at him as he jumps off his hoverbike, stalking his way to where Shiro had parked his, resting against the steel and watching the sunset.

Keith's voice is angry — on the surface, but Shiro hears the fear underneath. He tries to smile at the other, but his lips are rusty and it's been weeks since he last had smiled, back when Sam Holt had wanted him on the Kerberos initiative. He remembers that Sam had left six missed calls on his phone.

"I won." He announces, and Keith walks up to him and pushes him in the chest. It hurts, but Shiro doesn't mind. The pain is welcome in the numbness he's been cocooned in for the last few eternities.

"Only because your old-timer ass is crazy enough to do a stunt like _that!"_ Keith grouses, crossing his arms, the fear disappearing as he takes in the smile on Shiro's face. He falters, unsure of the irritation and the worry, and Shiro watches as he settles for the tried-and-tested look of apathy that he knows Keith pulls on almost everyday.

They stand there — or Shiro leans and Keith rests his weight on one foot — watching the sunset, the colors painting the sky, rose-gold and scarlet and mauve, and Shiro feels the wind against his face, tickling his hair and his skin and it feels cool — and he doesn't feel like he's about to crack. He only hears the beating of his heart and the shift of Keith's jacket as he moves and he doesn't feel like he's about to fall apart.

"How'd you even do that?" Keith asks, gesturing to the cliff. Shiro doesn't turn his head, but he does smile and from where Keith was, he knows the other could see it.

"Timing, I guess." Keith steps closer until he's in Shiro's vision, and Shiro turns from the sunset to him.

It takes a him a while to realize that the other had grown — maybe not taller, but the hair had grown longer, and his muscles had gained more definition. The shoulders aren't hunched over, they're set straight, even. Keith looks more confident, more at ease with himself and the smile on his face is not strained, not as much as it had been before. It almost looks easy.

"You think I could do that?" He asks, and Shiro doesn't doubt that he can. He still has the whole world before him. "What do you think?"

Keith looks up at him, surprised — but his eyes grow warm, and his cheeks flush and he looks flustered all of a sudden, and Shiro — he can't help it. He just laughs.

It's rough, and hoarse and it feels like it has been forever since he had last laughed, last made a sound of that sort, but it's true and it barrels out of his chest like a barely-held back aria. Keith frowns, a bit annoyed, but the smile on his face is genuine even under the blush and Shiro can't help but laugh even louder — and if it sounds like sobbing, if the hitch in his voice is any indication of how the thin and blurred the line between the two is, Keith doesn't say anything.

He looks bright in the sunset, a pillar of what Shiro's helped grow and nurture and it's a reminder that not everything he's done was all for naught.

His band goes off, and Keith notices it and Shiro's laugh is cut off as the surges run up his arm and down his back. He's used to it, though — used to the crackle of electricity and the reminder that he's on the last few grains of sand in an hourglass glued to the table.

"What's that?" Keith asks and Shiro sighs.

"It's a muscle stimulant."

"What's wrong with your muscles?" He continues, frowning. Shiro shrugs,

"Just part of being an old-timer, I guess."

Keith doesn't ask anymore after that, but Shiro doesn't feel like he needs to pepper the silence with words and questions. It's easy between them — and Shiro feels like they've grown closer than cadet and officer when they don't need words to fill the silence. Keith settles against the tail of the bike and crosses his arms over his chest and the sunlight, receding in the coming dusk, bathes them in warmth that isn't stifling. Shiro feels like there's life in his veins, for the first time in a long while.

He makes his choice, and when he settles on it, it feels like he's done something right by himself.

* * *

When he gets home, Shiro places the phone on the table by the door, having ended the call with Sam Holt. The lights are on, and when he locks the door behind him, Adam steps out of the bedroom. Shiro looks at him — takes him in, flaxen hair and hazel eyes and the frown lines down his face, the circles under his eyes and the furrow that has become almost permanent in between his brows and Shiro bites his lips, wondering when everything had started to fall apart.

No, he does know. It began with the veins and nerves under his skin and it won't end, not until it gets what it wants from him — and what he has left. Shiro won't let it. He won't.

"You're here." Adam says, noting and his voice is unsure. Shiro knows he hasn't been home in days.

"Yeah. I needed to talk to you." His voice is even, the words calm and Shiro doesn't feel like he's mincing them, trying to extract them from stone. It's like he needed to do that dive — to jump off the edge of a cliff and feel the sun in his eyes and the world disappearing below him — the fragile line between life and death.

He feels like he needed that for what he's about to say, what he's about to do.

"Okay." Adam nods, holding himself and stepping close. His hair is unkempt, and his eyes are weary, rimmed in red. He's been crying. Shiro feels the ache in his bones and he grips the lapels of his jacket tight, if holding on to it would fix whatever had happened.

"I love you." He confesses, and it's the realization that it's the first time he's ever voiced that aloud — hear his own voice, no matter how low and broken it had become, saying the words and hearing the lilt of it echo in the silence of the room. Adam's eyes are wide and he bites his lip. "No matter what happens, I want you to know that I love you."

"Don't—don't say it like that." Adam croaks, nervous. "Don't, Shiro."

"I know you're not ready to say it back, Adam." Shiro responds, and it's funny — funny like ice down his throat, funny like sand in his stomach and glass shards in his veins — how clear everything is when you're standing at the precipice and your only option is how far you're going to jump off the edge and how fast you hurtle towards the ground until you explode into petals of scarlet and white. Shiro sees things for what it is now — and maybe it's the grief talking, or the desperation mingling in with common sense, or just the relief of admitting it to himself. "I know you're not ready for this."

Adam's face screws up, eyes pained. "I am, Shiro. You know I am."

"No, you're not." Shiro says, and it's not unkind. It's consoling, and understanding and he says it with a finality of someone who's been playing a game by himself all his life. "And if you say it back to me now, you're only doing it because you think it's what I want to hear."

Adam is quiet — the kind of quiet he tries when his emotions get the best of him, and his eyes are burning as he looks around, lost. Shiro's fists shake, and he tries not to run across and wrap his arms around the other. "What do you want me to say, Shiro?"

"You don't have to say anything. You just have to listen, that's all I ask."

Adam nods, once and twice, and Shiro tries to smile at him — tries to show much he cares for the other, even now, even when the distance between them is irreparable, and what lingers in the middle are atrophied muscles and dying nerves.

"I've decided to go through with it. WIth the mission." He announces, and his words are soft — but in the deafening silence that follows after, the tension that turns physical, they almost seem like gunshots. Adam's face _breaks,_ and he looks haunted — anger and sadness and sorrow coagulating until none of that beauty remains, and all Shiro could see are glass shards on the ground.

"We agreed to _decide_ this together, Shiro." He growls, pointing at the ground and he's scowling through the brightness of his eyes but Shiro shakes his head, keeps his voice even.

"Adam, you know how much this means to me. How important it is to me." Shiro doesn't need to reiterate how each dream, each second of his life had been addressed towards this — how every moment that's pushed him forward and onwards to this stepping had been carved and planned and aimed for since the very beginning. Shiro knows that and he knows Adam knows that — how many times had he shared that same dream, over and over, as they held each other under the moonlit sky, as they sit on the deck and watch the sunrise and feels the warmth wash over them.

"What about me?" Shiro doesn't look away — even if the pain in Adam's eyes threaten to destroy whatever courage he's managed to scrounge up from the icy depths in his chest. "You know how important you are to me, Shiro."

"I know, Adam." Shiro swallows and continues. "And I know that, somewhere along the way, the Garrison stopped mattering to you, didn't it?"

His boyfriend — can Shiro still call him that? Can he still call Adam his in the conclusion of all the strands tying them together being cut, one by one? — stills, and he ducks his head as he tries to suck in his sobs. Shiro's chest aches, and he wants to claw at it — but he doesn't. This loss is something he'll have to be used to—

And seeing Adam cry and hurt, while Shiro only feels the deep thump of his heart, screams of unfair, just another mirror of what he's lost. He can't even cry anymore.

"Somewhere along the way, you stayed not because of the Garrison." His voice is quiet, and he doesn't sound angry or betrayed. It's calm and just a bit heartbroken. "You stayed because of me."

"Please don't do this, Shiro." Adam asks — begs — and it hurts, like a barbed wire around his skin and in his bones, at the pleading, almost desperate sound that Adam makes. It's not what Shiro would have wanted to hear from him — it's not Shiro wanted to hear from him at all. Adam was smart and bright, and the look of wonder he used to look at Shiro with had slowly grown steady and he knows — he knows that Adam loves him, and he doesn't compare, doesn't want to weigh the options, but he knows—sometimes, love just isn't enough.

"You know I have to do this, Adam." The smile on his face shakes. "While I still have time left."

"Shiro, don't cut me out like this. I can't follow you. I can't go through this, knowing you're out there." Adam begs, walking close and his hands are cold as they grab Shiro's. There are tear tracks on his face, and he looks haunted and hollow, the strain of the weeks and the month that had passed by tattooed in every frown and raw-redness of his skin.

He wants to reach up and press his hands over the cheeks, wipe the tears away and kiss every angry, heartbroken line that's formed and festered. He doesn't — and partly it's because life rarely gives you what you want, and mostly because it's something you're no longer allowed to.

He needs to go through with this, and if he falters, he doesn't know if he'll ever find the courage to do it again.

He pulls his hands out from Adam's, trying to memorize the way his skin feels, the groove of his knuckles and the calluses that have developed over the years. He doesn't say anything —

And there's nothing to say, when Adam's eyes shut and the sob in his throat breaks. When you build your world on someone's shoulders, this is what happens when they disappear.

"I've made my choice." Shiro breathes, and Adam's hands remain in the air, trembling. "And I won't hate you for whatever you decide to do best for yourself. Like I said, I love you."

And Shiro thinks that a part of him might always love Adam — a part of him will never forget the person who was there when everything fell apart and tried to fix him up. When the light hits the glass pane and the colors disintegrate into hazel and flaxen-gold, it's impossible not to love and feel like it's something you'll forget. Shiro will always have a part of Adam in him, and that part is what keeps him going — pushes him onward to his dream. Adam reminded him of what he could be — what he could become if he put his mind to it — reminded him that he's more than the sickness eating away at him, more than the death lingering just behind him.

"I can't go through this." Adam shakes his head, panting and breathing through his mouth. "I can't watch you kill yourself, Shiro."

Shiro smiles sadly. "I'm already dying, Adam."

"Then I won't be here when you get back." He utters, and it's angry and biting and spiteful, but Shiro doesn't feel it against his skin or his heart. The rage is a cover, the bite is a film and what really pushes Adam to speak, to attack, is just the heartbreaking realization that this is the finish line. Shiro shakes his head. _I wouldn't want you to._

"Goodbye, Adam." That's all he says, and he turns away, walking out of the door and out of Adam's life and only when it shuts behind him does he allow himself to lean against the wall and sob — and he does it with a fist pressed against his lips and a hand over his chest, clawing out at the fragility of forever and it's all in silence, and the sobs that do echo — the wracking cries come from behind the door, and Shiro can only pretend not to feel the shards in his eyes and the smoke in his mouth.

* * *

Keith finds him later — in the medical bay where he's getting his electro-stimulator booted — and when Shiro turns, the other is worried and furious.

"What's wrong with you?" He asks, and the flatness of his voice begs for honesty. Shiro sets the band down, pulling the jacket over him. Keith is panting, ragged, and he's blocking the door.

Shiro can't find it in him to lie — and he doesn't want to lie anymore. Not when he only had a few digits counting to zero on the counter. The hollow in his chest is big, and it eclipses his entire body, and what's one more truth — one more person seeing him for the broken man that he is? He's lost so much already, he can afford to lose more.

"Tell me, please." Keith pleads, and he sounds like Adam and not, and Shiro can only face him and not take the few steps forward. "I'm not a kid anymore. I can handle it. Trust me."

And it's true — Shiro realizes. Keith is not a kid anymore, and he's been burning brighter than the rest, teeming with potential and possibility, and it's the irony of how similar they are — polar opposites in personality but thrumming with the same energy, same desperation and same determination to reach their dreams, no matter what it takes. Keith's grown up — and even though the years between them is barely worth mentioning, he's finally beginning to see the morning star Keith could become — and he'll eclipse even Shiro.

The thought is comforting — at least, here, in the end, he can still say that he made something beautiful and not have it fester.

"I have a disease, Keith." The other's eyes lose their anger, and they go from surprise to fear. "There's no cure, and it won't be long until my muscle start failing and my nerves stop working."

"What—" Keith doesn't continue, unsure of what to say. Shiro's eyes are dry, and when he breathes, it's not clogged in his chest like tar turned stone.

"I want to live my life while I still can," he continues, and the only sound between them other than his own voice is Keith's breathing, frayed at the edges. "I'm going to Kerberos. I'm not changing my mind."

"What—" Keith swallows. "What about Adam?"

Shiro lowers his eyes. "Adam won't be here if I come back."

The sadness he feels at the words, the conclusion — the end of a broken promise he can still remember making, remember asking — is blunt, a bludgeon that grows to half the size of his chest and the entirety of a moon on Pluto's far side.

A multitude of emotions run across Keith's face — anger, heartbreak, confusion — and Shiro doesn't try to catch all of them. He only takes in the fall of dark hair, smooth and wavy — and the purple-mauve with the gentle flecks of blue — and the idea, the memory, of the closed-off shadow that had grown bright and blinding in his hands.

"You have to come back." Keith begs — no, demands — and the syllables break but Shiro doesn't pay them attention. "Promise me that you'll come back."

His hands grow cold at them, and he can't think of anything but the empty quarters waiting for him should he choose to return — the closet that is missing half its content, the absent pair of boots next to his or the space on the right side of the bed that is frigid and painful to touch. He doesn't know if he can even come back, and the thought of crawling all the way past five different planets and knowing there's nothing — and nobody — waiting at the end was a gamble he wasn't willing to make.

Shiro shakes his head, looking into his eyes. "I have no one to come back to, Keith."

Anger replaces fear and Keith growls. "Then come back to _me._ I'm still here. Come back to _me."_

And it shouldn't feel good, right? — it shouldn't feel good to hear those words, somehow. And it should feel weird that it's Keith saying them, it's Keith uttering them with a ferocity that cannot be tamed, and a demand that has Shiro's hands itching to hold him close.

And it shouldn't be emancipating and freeing — to realize that maybe he hasn't lost everything, yet.

"Okay." Shiro answers, nods, and smiles. "I promise."

Keith takes a moment to relax — just to breathe — and he's suddenly up in Shiro's space, arms around his body and Shiro automatically holds him close. Dark hair meets his chin, a nose pressed against his chest, over his heart, and the limbs around his chest aren't lanky — they've grown in definition — and Shiro's heart skips at the feeling of warmth against the fragile, tremulous candle of his heart. His voice is muffled against his chest, but Shiro hears it and it stokes the ember of hope inside him. "I'm going to wait for you no matter how long."

The words are trite, superficial — cheesy even — but Shiro can't help the sting of his eyes, the hopeful curl of his lips and the need to pull Keith closer, an anchor on Earth that Shiro can hold on to even as he flies past asteroids and comets, and Titan itself.

And Shiro thinks — that maybe, just maybe, he doesn't have to feel like he's never understood what he's lived through, or feel like he's never had enough time.

* * *

 **FIN**


End file.
